Ah, San Francisco. Where Tony Bennett left his heart, and the gays, their underwear. This morning we had a later start than usual, thanks to our gradual acclimatisation to the time difference. So we sat in the Castro to enjoy a fresh orange juice in the warm morning sun. An off-duty drag queen sat darning a costume, happy hand-holding couples strolled up the street with their tiny, overdressed dogs, and an old bear sat in the middle of it all as naked as the day he was born (although, I imagine, significantly more tumescent).
Having gotten the hang of the muni transit system, we decided that today would involve less walking than the previous day. Admittedly, we did overdo it a little, with a packed agenda that would have a triathlete breathing into a paper bag. As if the miles and miles of hillwalking wasn't enough, we even rented bikes and cycled along the sea front, then across the Golden Gate bridge. The official guide suggested that we keep going all the way to Sausalito, but I sensed that Doug's patience was growing as thin as the soles of his overworked shoes. Thankfully, most of the return journey was downhill, and unencumbered by the crowds of gormless tourists that had plagued our outbound slog.
It's Fleet Week in San Francisco, which means that the city is awash with seamen (steady on) as all the naval ships come to the city and give their crews shore leave for a few days. It's a uniform fetishist's idea of heaven.
We watched the airshow from a cafe by the water, and marvelled at how impossible it is to deduce the cost of a meal based on the prices in a menu. Aside from constantly attempting to calculate the equivalent price in sterling, there's the sales tax to think of. Then there's the tip, which here in the US is supposed to be between 15 and 25% of your total bill. On top of that, we discovered a new surcharge called the 'Healthy San Francisco' charge - this was a new scheme introduced by the city's mayor to force bars and restaurants to pay for healthcare for food service professionals. Which is all very commendable, but it does mean that the bill can sometimes run to several pages.
We took the opportunity to have a good mosey around the Castro area, which has a pretty good selection of bars, restaurants and shops. There are some great store names as well, from the 'Squat and Gobble Creperie' to 'The Sausage Factory' pizzeria. Oh, and don't forget the 'Hand Job Nail Spa'. When it comes to naming your business, the smuttier the better. Surely it won't be too long before they stop trying to be funny, and just go for all-out rudeness. Meet you at the 'Fuck Me Harder Pattiserie'.
Where was I? Oh, that's right, shopping. Having marvelled at the extraordinary variety of items available that can be inserted into the human body (not to mention the eye-watering size of them) we moved on to a more mainstream shopping experience.
I was looking for some kind of light walking shoe, and ended up buying a bizarre pair of Vibram FiveFingers. I know that sounds more like something you'd buy in one of the afore-mentioned sex shops, but I promise they're entirely legitimate footwear. They're like clingy, rubberised gloves for your feet and apparently change your entire posture and walking style by "emulating the sensation of being barefoot". I could have just taken my regular shoes off and saved myself a hundred dollars, but figured 'what the hell'. Then I looked down and thought 'what the hell?' From the ankle down I look like an Afro-Carribean hobbit. I'm impressed so far, but no doubt I'll change my mind when I awake in the night with crippling back-ache.
Blame it on the salesman. Unlike a British shop assistant who'd struggle to muster the energy to tut in my direction, the sales people here are so incredibly friendly, you almost feel like buying something out of gratitude. They greet you on your way in, they thank you for your visit when you leave, and they know everything there is to know about every item in stock. Anyone who works in the service industry should be forced to visit the US for a couple of days as part of their induction programme. As a consequence of all this 'super awesome' service, my bank manager and I will be forced to sit down and have a frank conversation when I get back to the UK.
Showing posts with label Castro. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Castro. Show all posts
Monday, 11 October 2010
Saturday, 9 October 2010
Be sure to wear a flower in your hair
Well, here we are again. Greetings from the gayest place on Earth, other than Disneyland or Living TV. We're now in San Francisco, where the weather is glorious, the flags are rainbow and the vistas are hilly.
Our last day in New York was spent retracing our steps and visiting the last few places we'd missed, lugging our ridiculously heavy carry-on bags with us. In just five days we'd managed to tick off everything on Beth's alarmingly comprehensive itinerary. Our every movement was planned with military precision and we left no stone unturned in uncovering everything that the city had to offer.
For a special treat on our final night, Beth took us to Bobby Flay's Bar Americain for the most insanely tasty steak we've ever had. Everything about the dinner was perfect, from the blue cheese dip served with homemade potato chips, to the buttered spinach and goat's cheese cauliflower that we ordered, if only to remind our bodies what vegetables are. And the waitress was so effortlessly attentive and psychically attuned to our needs, I started to suspect the involvement of dark forces.
Our final moments in New York were spent hammering our credit cards on Fifth Avenue. Not so much retail therapy, as retail rehabilitation followed by a 12-step programme. We spent a particularly long time in Abercrombie & Fitch, thanks in part to the prevalence of semi-naked male models standing around the store with pouts you could rest a coffee cup on.
For a clothing store, there's very little emphasis on buying or selling clothes. There may be five floors in the flagship store, but they only had about eight different items to choose from. Everywhere you turn it's the same red lumberjack shirt, on the staff, on the mannequins and on every display table. A&F has also taken its lead from the supermarkets that pipe the fresh bread smell into their air-con system. Only here, its the overpowering Abercrombie cologne which gradually works its way into your system until you're incapable of breathing without it.
Still, it was with heavy hearts and even heavier suitcases that we took a cab to JFK for the second half of our trip. I was originally dismayed to learn that we would be travelling with American Airlines, since my last experience on-board an AA flight was like being stuck in an airborne rest-home where the daily activity involved getting the residents to serve lukewarm coffee with a sneer.
Maybe it was something in the air (perhaps even those A&F pheremones still seeping out of my epidermis) but everyone on board was in such a good mood. The staff we're falling over themselves to help (not literally, thank goodness) and the passengers were all so friendly and courteous to one another, offering to swap seats, help each other with bags. Even the in-flight movie seemed to have been re-edited for content to make it more upbeat.
Six hours later, and we were settling into our little B&B in the heart of the Castro. That's San Francisco's famous gay district, where even the bins have rainbow stickers on them, and every store has a comprehensive range of porn to suit every taste - irrespective of their main product offering.
Drinking is a pretty expensive business here - where a small glass of wine will set you back about eight dollars. So we were glad to find a bar that offered potent $5 cocktails and appeared to be playing Lady Gaga videos on a loop. It was also only a short stagger back to our accommodation, which was handy.
Today was an opportunity to get our bearings, so that meant more walking. My legs are now three inches shorter than they were at the start of this trip. We visited the port, the TransAmerica pyramid, Grace Cathedral, Nob Hill (that was a disappointment) and a little place called Macondray Lane in Russian Hill.
That's where you'll find a rickety set of wooden steps that played a fundamental role in Channel 4 and PBS's seminal mini-series 'Tales of the City', based on the books by Armistead Maupin. It was incredible to finally see the steps for real, although I'm not entirely sure that Doug shared my enthusiasm for this tiny piece of pop-culture history. Especially not after trudging across half of San Francisco's most unforgiving hills to get there. *Message to the creators of Dorling Kindersley's otherwise excellent travel guides - "Your maps are beautifully drawn and annotated, but please include topographical details next time."
Attempting to shave a few hundred metres off our return journey, I navigated us towards the beautiful sounding, and historically significant 'Tenderloin' part of town. Turns out, it's the kind of place where even Amy Winehouse would be looking over her shoulder nervously. Crack addicts, homeless people and anyone who enjoys standing in piss-soaked trousers yelling at street-signs call the Tenderloin home. Thankfully, so too did a friendly passing bear. Concerned for our innocence, and our highly attractive photographic equipment, he swept to the rescue and guided us back towards civilisation, cameras still intact.
Who know what adventures tomorrow holds. In a city like San Francisco, you never can tell...
Our last day in New York was spent retracing our steps and visiting the last few places we'd missed, lugging our ridiculously heavy carry-on bags with us. In just five days we'd managed to tick off everything on Beth's alarmingly comprehensive itinerary. Our every movement was planned with military precision and we left no stone unturned in uncovering everything that the city had to offer.
For a special treat on our final night, Beth took us to Bobby Flay's Bar Americain for the most insanely tasty steak we've ever had. Everything about the dinner was perfect, from the blue cheese dip served with homemade potato chips, to the buttered spinach and goat's cheese cauliflower that we ordered, if only to remind our bodies what vegetables are. And the waitress was so effortlessly attentive and psychically attuned to our needs, I started to suspect the involvement of dark forces.
Our final moments in New York were spent hammering our credit cards on Fifth Avenue. Not so much retail therapy, as retail rehabilitation followed by a 12-step programme. We spent a particularly long time in Abercrombie & Fitch, thanks in part to the prevalence of semi-naked male models standing around the store with pouts you could rest a coffee cup on.
For a clothing store, there's very little emphasis on buying or selling clothes. There may be five floors in the flagship store, but they only had about eight different items to choose from. Everywhere you turn it's the same red lumberjack shirt, on the staff, on the mannequins and on every display table. A&F has also taken its lead from the supermarkets that pipe the fresh bread smell into their air-con system. Only here, its the overpowering Abercrombie cologne which gradually works its way into your system until you're incapable of breathing without it.
Still, it was with heavy hearts and even heavier suitcases that we took a cab to JFK for the second half of our trip. I was originally dismayed to learn that we would be travelling with American Airlines, since my last experience on-board an AA flight was like being stuck in an airborne rest-home where the daily activity involved getting the residents to serve lukewarm coffee with a sneer.
Maybe it was something in the air (perhaps even those A&F pheremones still seeping out of my epidermis) but everyone on board was in such a good mood. The staff we're falling over themselves to help (not literally, thank goodness) and the passengers were all so friendly and courteous to one another, offering to swap seats, help each other with bags. Even the in-flight movie seemed to have been re-edited for content to make it more upbeat.
Six hours later, and we were settling into our little B&B in the heart of the Castro. That's San Francisco's famous gay district, where even the bins have rainbow stickers on them, and every store has a comprehensive range of porn to suit every taste - irrespective of their main product offering.
Drinking is a pretty expensive business here - where a small glass of wine will set you back about eight dollars. So we were glad to find a bar that offered potent $5 cocktails and appeared to be playing Lady Gaga videos on a loop. It was also only a short stagger back to our accommodation, which was handy.
Today was an opportunity to get our bearings, so that meant more walking. My legs are now three inches shorter than they were at the start of this trip. We visited the port, the TransAmerica pyramid, Grace Cathedral, Nob Hill (that was a disappointment) and a little place called Macondray Lane in Russian Hill.
That's where you'll find a rickety set of wooden steps that played a fundamental role in Channel 4 and PBS's seminal mini-series 'Tales of the City', based on the books by Armistead Maupin. It was incredible to finally see the steps for real, although I'm not entirely sure that Doug shared my enthusiasm for this tiny piece of pop-culture history. Especially not after trudging across half of San Francisco's most unforgiving hills to get there. *Message to the creators of Dorling Kindersley's otherwise excellent travel guides - "Your maps are beautifully drawn and annotated, but please include topographical details next time."
Attempting to shave a few hundred metres off our return journey, I navigated us towards the beautiful sounding, and historically significant 'Tenderloin' part of town. Turns out, it's the kind of place where even Amy Winehouse would be looking over her shoulder nervously. Crack addicts, homeless people and anyone who enjoys standing in piss-soaked trousers yelling at street-signs call the Tenderloin home. Thankfully, so too did a friendly passing bear. Concerned for our innocence, and our highly attractive photographic equipment, he swept to the rescue and guided us back towards civilisation, cameras still intact.
Who know what adventures tomorrow holds. In a city like San Francisco, you never can tell...
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