A Girl...

The Golden Age

This morning we didn't have time to make tea before leaving for work, so instead I grabbed a tea bag, poured one glug of milk into my empty travel mug, and spooned in a modest amount of sugar. Five minutes later I'd be at the office where lives the bottled water and the electric tea kettle, and all would be right with the world now that I'm officially an addict.

But why bring my own tea and milk and sugar from home when we have free community tea and milk and sugar at work? Because they don't have the right kind of tea (it tastes like grass!) or the right kind of sugar (I love Splenda! I hate Splenda!) or the right kind of milk (I do not like the word "chug"). And also because this is Part I, Section I of becoming the lady who brings her own bottle of mustard to the hotdog stand and her own pillow to the Savoy. This doesn't even fall into the category of Turning Into My Mother; I think I'm actually turning into someone else's grandmother. Bring on the plastic headscarf; winter's blowing in.

Yes, winter is blowing in, which means it's time to gear up for the rainy season. It doesn't snow here and rarely gets below 50 degrees during the day, but the rains, oh the rains, they make up for the dry seven months with viscious downpours that don't let up for three days and three nights, which just happens to be one day short of what it takes for me to start blueprinting an ark. (I kid you not, it just this minute started to rain for the first time.)

Not that I'm moaning and groaning about the temperate Mediterranean climate here. I will never have to chip ice off my windshield, and I will also never wear a watermelon skirt in October. (Are you reading Jonniker? You should be.) And of course the colder months here provide the perfect weather for bike riding, which not-so-coincidentally happens to be the occassion of the latest agirlandaboy.com photo blitzkrieg.

One of the coolest things about this area is that it's impossible to have nothing to do. Even if I've already done or seen something once or twice or a half-dozen times, I always find something new when I go back. How many times have I seen the Golden Gate Bridge? Countless. But how many times have I ridden a pink cruiser across it? As of last weekend, once--twice if you count the ride back.

Also, as much as I want to keep Simon all to myself, I realize that it is both healthy for us as a couple and necessary for him as an individual to hang out with other people every once in a while. And so it was that our friends J and E accompanied us on the ride from San Francisco to Marin County. They were on mountain bikes and wearing helmets and even had one pant leg rolled up away from the chain. We were in loose jeans and knit hats and no protective gear whatsoever, unless you count my mismatched circus ensemble, which likely had the power to scare away any potential injuries with its Power of Clash.

After the ol' jump, you'll find slideshows with commentaries and some more of those super-saturated colors that make me want to scoop the pixels from the screen right into my mouth.

Here's the bridge from Chrissy Field, an old airstrip turned park that runs along the waterfront. Even on cold and foggy days, there are people playing frisbee with their dogs or spooning chocolate cake into their party-hatted babies. The Golden Gate Bridge is also a great way to challenge one's photographic skills--next time you're in front of a world-famous structure, see if you can take a unique shot of something that's been photographed a million times before. The good thing is, even a bad (or ordinary) shot of the bridge is bound to be beautiful by virtue of its statuesque subject, even on a day it's looking a little like a brooding teenager.

And here's the bridge up close and personal. It's official color is "International Orange" and do you see what I mean about the vividness of everything that day? The orange! The turquoise! The texture of the crumbling rust! Absolutely stunning. Look for Sutro Tower way off in the background in the photo of the San Francisco City and County sign. Also, check out the braille studs on the pillars. Why had I never looked at the bridge from these angles before?

Here's the view from the bridge. The cove of homes is Baker Beach and Land's End, where Robin Williams lives when he's not in rehab. I think Photoshop fiddled with the color of the water in the shot of the ship between the slats, but it was too lovely to "fix" so I didn't.

Here are pictures of the worst part of the day--getting to and from the bridge. Because our bikes have only one gear, we had to walk them up long hills, and because they weigh thirteen tons, we had to walk them slowly and with much vocalization of agony. Let's not even talk about the stairs. Once we got to where we needed to be, though...well, see for yourself:

When we got back across to the other side, we stopped for some grass-fed hippy hotdogs with sauteed onions and overpriced rootbeer, then rode the mile back to our cars, one of us demonstrating the incorrect way to ride a bike, which is (a) in traffic, (b) down a hill, (c) around a curve, and (d) taking pictures. It was a little like the woodshop teacher showing students how to safely use the circular saw and then cutting his finger off in the process. I didn't crash, but I should have, as that's the only way I'm ever going to learn my lesson.

And finally, here are a few shots from our drive back home through the city. There's Lombard Street (the second curviest, but the most famous) with Coit Tower in the background; there's the view down Columbus Street in the heart of North Beach, our Little Italy; there's the Transamerica Pyramid and my favorite building in San Francisco, the Sentinel--copper on the outside, Coppolas on the inside; and there's a straight shot to the bay. I can see my house from here.

Consider them Flickred.

Posted by Leah at October 4, 2006 02:59 PM