Day 17-21 - San Francisco (mostly)

Forecast: cloudless and warm. We had fallen into the mentality of refusing to dwell on the daunting mileage ahead, so much so that our westernmost destination had appeared a hazy dream of some distant future. Now, the reality of being hours away from the coast kissed us on the cheek. A silent repetition of Rumi became my mantra, his words the earmark of the simplistic bliss of a gorgeous, carefree sunny day:

This is not a day for asking questions,
not a day on any calendar.
This day is conscious of itself.

A day that cares only about the day. As we coasted through Tahoe National Forest, the date, the hour, the season, all time telling dissipated into the mountain air. The waft of evergreen carried home across the country. I have referenced "the divine" and "divinity" multiple times during this blog, and am compelled to employ it again, but not without a necessary clarification. What I mean by divinity is not rooted in theology; rather it is the very roots themselves, to which the branches of all religious traditions bow. Without delving into a discussion on religion, it will hopefully suffice for the present moment to clarify that the term "divinity" signifies the presence of that which is greater than one's own ego - the universal Self, as much within as without. In fact, in such so-called divine moments, it is meaningless to reference any sort of division whatsoever; dichotomies collapse into the now. All that said, home among the trees and warmed by the sun, the day was conscious of itself like sunlight on water. Divine.

Less than two weeks ago in Ontario, I was chilled to the bone with every layer I had on. Now, rounding Sacramento, I was sweating in a t-shirt. We hit some traffic nearing the city, but it was no matter. In our minds, we had already arrived.

Big Mike arguably inherited his nickname from his father - but he earned his title from his larger-than-life personality. Hilarity, positivity, and the undulations of a pure heart make the Man also a Myth and a Legend. We parked the bikes, and called him to inform him of the arrival, although little needed to be said. A solid gold line of randomness, consistent with all that is Big Mike, set the tone for our stay: "You're here! I'm actually on a treadmill right now.... got 3 minutes left and then a shower. Should be there in 15 minutes tops - hang tight." To most, this might easily pass for an average conversation. But for all who have been blessed with this man's presence, it was yet another giggling start to a visit of good vibes.

It was evident instantly that he had made the town his own - not that the matter was ever doubtful. In San Francisco, there was a general vibe that you had to be somebody - not a status game or a notable public figure per se, moreso you have to be a sort of character. In the most trivial form, this can mean something like one who has accumulated more "amazing" experiences than a room full of sorta interesting people combined. In its best form, you have to be a personality. San Fran is the kind of city with a vibrant social atmosphere; there are multiple things to do on a nightly basis, which is true to some degree in most major cities, but the extent to which it was witnessed here was rivaled in my experience only by the city that never sleeps. Frisco (no one actually calls it as such) does sleep, and wakes right up for more. Big Mike is a plumber by profession, but valid puns can be drawn to no end about his ability to work a social pipeline.

Our first night out was intended to be low-key. Mikey brought us to Toronado Pub, a bar serving only the most delectable of beers. It is harvest season, so the specials were all as fresh as it gets. Right off the bat, rumors were confirmed - the city is indeed a mecca of food and drink, and especially so relative to the food deserts we traversed to get here. Before too long, friends old and new of the Legend were pulling up seats to pay their respect to Mikey's boys from home. We were welcomed with open arms, and although (as we later came to find) all of them were compelling characters in their own right with stories for a lifetime, they were no less excited to sit back and hear our tales from the road. The excellence of any excellent adventure is readily identifiable by a fellow adventurer.

As we were strolling home, Big Mike continued catching us up on his excellent Frisco adventures. As we rounded a corner, two bikers slowed as they passed, one yelling "Hey Mikey!", returned with a "What's up man?" The anonymity of the conversation was a perfect example of the continental spread of his celebrity.

While the legend himself was called to the duty of the day job, Snake and I spent the day wandering a bit. At his recommendation, we hit up one of the eleventy-billion cafes within walking distance of his Divisadero apartment. We people watched on Haight St. over a delicious breakfast (and a fantastic espresso), admiring the beauty of passersby and barristas alike. As we cruised upper Haight, I was astounded at the number of bicycles, scooters, and motorcycles. My naive assumption was that the greenness of the city (and green it certainly is), in this respect, would be compromised by the hellacious hills that could easily lead to serious injury or death on a regular basis. But folks bombing around on two wheels seemed unphased, so I laid my surprise to rest.

As we neared Haight/Ashbury, I took notice of a novel phenomenon, largely unbeknownst to me: the hippie-ish demographic of the homeless community, those who seemed more conscientious objectors rather than folks born in the red and repeatedly roasted by the system. Everyone has a unique story, no doubt, but there were enough cases present to us clearly epitomizing what has been termed said phenomenon. They roll in packs, often with pets. They obviously spend a lot of time conceiving and polishing clever one-liners for money, such as "Heya, can you spare the better part of a dollar? If not, the whole buck's good too." One guy strumming nothingness on his guitar, after asking me for change and let down at my reply, retorted sharply, "or it'd be cool if you could just buy me a beer." I found myself for the first time somewhat sympathetic to the slander against homelessness I had heard by those on the other side. Yet my defenses failed me, and I groped for compassion before realizing that it wasn't disgust over their situation I was feeling, but tough love. I find it nearly inconceivable that even the most unsympathetic soul who turns a blind eye towards others in need is wholly devoid of some resulting primordial dissonance; the brushing-up against other walks of life inevitably casts one back into oneself. However distorted it may be, the mirror of the world reflects something back.

My frustration at the sight of what appeared to be the self-chosen homeless community (many of whom, in the younger generation, are runaways or vagabonds I'm told) is a microcosm for a leitmotif woven into this blog: everyone has to make a buck. What does the buck really symbolize here? Every person has to carve out a life. Even the prototypical trust-fund baby must come to terms with some notion of self, and therefore formulate some notion of identity. The conscientiously-homeless dilemma boils down to this: outright rebellion against the System is no more than the other side of the proverbial coin to those with an umbilical dependence upon it. We inherit the System by the fact of our birth. It is, has been, will always be, laden with inequity. The System cannot possibly serve the diversity of wants and needs of the individuals it purports to serve. The ever-evolving needs of any specific historical period demands chronic ratification to such a system. Its tasks, amendments, injustices, and myopisms may require constant revision, but the nature of such a system is fundamentally immutable. It is, ultimately, only what we ascribe to it. No more, no less. The System hinges on faith. If we expiate its demands and iniquities within our own scope, but without compromise to what is more important to us on a basic level, then no effort is wasted extraneously. It is not selling out, nor is it conformity. Rather, it is reconciliation.

When one trods the path of deliberate rebellion in the fashion of the conscientious homeless, one has no choice but to burden others with the system's demands. What was implicitly transmitted to me in the requests along Haight St was "work is for squares. Be rad and hook me up with a beer, bro." I imagine the harbingers of hippiedom are rolling restlessly in their groovy graves. This flavor of rebellion is puerile at best. "Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the world," declared the Concord sage in Self-Reliance. Absolve yourself to the system, and you shall have a buck. It may very well be, in its essence, just worthless paper, but, echoing Ginsberg's inquiries to the symbol of America, don't hold your breath trying to buy groceries with your good looks. There is no escape from symbolism... especially denial.

Golden Gate Park is overwhelmingly huge. We could have been lost in there for days without a foreseeable exit. Avoiding the risk of never returning, we explored the quarter nearest to the Haight/Ashbury area. With tacit excitement, I pointed out to Snake a sign that said "Dahlia Garden," and he obliged. I am not the least bit to express my adoration of flowers, and dahlias in particular. Snake strolled along and indulged me while I gazed in awe. The strangely lovely dissonance of distant saxophones from opposing directions performed a pleasant soundtrack.

Walking back, we stopped at a garden supplies store called "Plant It Earth," a spot Big Mike had pointed out the previous night as one of his faves, and a potential place of interest for me. I peeked around for something to plant as a gift in his garden. Mikey had mentioned planting some sort of green in one corner; initially I had kale in mind, as both of us being Portuguese, we are lovers of it. They had mostly seeds, which wasn't much of an issue since the weather is conducive to year-round gardening; but alas, they were out of kale seeds. There were several various greens in the store window, and when I inquired about the price, I was told by the friendly staffperson that they were displays for the hydroponic setup. She took a closer look, and after realizing that one of the lettuce greens was bone dry and going to seed, she kindly gave it to me at no charge - "you know what, you can just have it." I thanked her repeatedly, and returned back to la casa de Miguel to trim back and plant some self-sowing lettuce. Getting the hands dirty is therapy, keeping at the forefront of the mind what Rumi articulated as a day conscious of itself.

After planting and giving the new addition to the garden a little bath, I sat gardenside sipping delectable suds (the convenience store a few blocks away had one of the best beer selections I have ever seen). Snake eventually joined me, as we sat together in silence compiling recollections and scribbling thoughts. It was a vivid metaphor for the excellent adventure camaraderie. One notable advantage of journeying by motorcycle is the simultaneity of sharing daily experience, but doing so largely independently. A majority of most days is devoted to the cruise - at lights, at rest stops, over a bite to eat, our chats are terse yet nevertheless pregnant with solidarity. "Did you see that car cut me off?" "What a view around that pass!" Sometimes purely informative: "One more gas up between here and X." Sometimes monosyllables suffice: "Nice." The journey of two entails a welcomed balance of soliloquy and dialogue.

That night, a group of us returned to Golden Gate Park for a visit to the Academy of Sciences - the world's greenest museum with the mission to "explore, explain, and protect the natural world", and founded on research dedicated to the evolution and sustainability of life. On Thursday evenings, the Academy opens its doors for an evening event, where there talks on the feature exhibit are held and refreshments are served. This month - "Sharktoberfest." No sharks, but many talks on how much sharks rule, as well as dancers in hula attire performing Hawaiian traditional dances honoring the creature. Big Mike received an unwanted call in the late afternoon for one more job, so we were tardier than expected. The four-story rainforest and the planetarium both cut off their lines for the evening, but there was still plenty of kindling to set the wondrous mind ablaze. Some of the exhibits were better received by yours truly than others, however. The most striking example of this was the array of the post-taxidermy. I understand the ability of such practices to further research and foster public understanding, but beholding the sight itself prompts an unnerving visceral reaction in me. Second to this is the mixture of fascination and moroseness upon seeing live animals in tanks and cages. In some cases it is much more of the former, such as with animals who have been rehabilitated, rescued from various circumstances, or monitored for reintroduction in the wild. But more often than not, the creature-as-spectacle evokes in me tinges of sadness; not without gratitude for its sacrifice so that I and others can behold its presence. Ethics and perspectives on what constitutes life aside, these were my reflections on my own reaction while passing the penguins in their small tank and overhearing a girl say to her apparent boyfriend, "they look so bored," or upon seeing the albino alligator open his eyes from slumber due to the clapping and flashing cameras of spectators.

The marvels of the Academy, true to its aim at large, were the intimations of all the wonder and majesty of Being science's reverence seeks to encapsulate. A T-Rex replica grinning in the entryway. An 87-ft blue whale skeleton suspended from the ceiling. And an extensive aquarium (fish have no souls, right? They're probably totally content), including one small tank of particular fascination to me: jellyfish. Amazing and beautifully simplistic in their constitution, movement, and danger (and living similes of previously hazardous storm clouds). My attention was instantly redirected from a strolling conversation throughout the aquarium section, in quintessential philosophical form, with a friend of the Man/Myth/Legend. The narrowness of hyperfocus overtook me: soooo pretty.....

On the walkway of the 2.5-acre roof of native flora were three telescopes, focused on Jupiter and its three moons (currently in the sky, although you need a telescope to see the moons), a binary star cluster, and our very own waxing moon. Interaction with the astronomer representatives at each telescope was an interesting affair. The Jupiter rep was the know-it-all, as eager to display his array of knowledge as he was to stump potential contenders grilling him with questions to flaunt their own display or impress their friends or significant others. The binary star rep was too immersed in another conversation to steal his attention. The moon rep informed us that the vertical row of crater contours visible where the light met dark were due to the position of the sun's light; this meeting of light and dark is known as "the terminator," as he didn't tire of saying with a smile, and after overhearing Big Mike's reference to Dark Side of the Moon ("there is no dark side of the moon, really - matter o' fact, it's all dark"), jumped for joy to discuss Pink Floyd, The Flaming Lips covering Pink Floyd, The Flaming Lips, and music in general. The geeky audiophile in me was happy to have so much in common. Bringing these images within range of the human eye is a tireless source of the wonder of it all.

Throughout our visit, I couldn't ignore the orgiastic Dionysian dimension, to which the science was in many cases secondary - more points of conversation and/or opportunities to flaunt the colorful feathers of personal experience rather than a genuine catalyst for awe. But science can only bring the layperson before the divine intricacies, harmonies, and mystery of life; the choice to drink it in is individual.

Upon arrival, Big Mike gave me a copy of The Book by Alan Watts. We share a great appreciation for the man and his thought, and although I had read and podcasted his work fairly extensively, I had yet to explore what is considered my many to be his most famous writing. Needless to say, it was a gift well-received; revisited and freshly-articulated life lessons notwithstanding, The Book became a micro-metaphor for my time in San Fran. Friday, Snake and I jumped back on the bikes for an exploration cruise. As we neared the Golden Gate Bridge, we had our first taste of the infamous fog that resides in the city year-round. It was like hitting a wall; the division between the sunlight and fog was completely visible. I thought of Watts' depiction of "the game of black and white" - in so many words, how our ego tricks us into wholeheartedly believing in dichotomies of right/wrong, good/evil, dark/light, up/down, and so on, that are in reality (using the term loosely) two facets of the same oneness. Without dark, there can be no such thing as light; therefore, one is entirely contingent upon the other, and therefore we cannot discuss one existing independent of its counterpart. The nature of existence has this twofold structure of unity. Immersed in fog, I was living the concept. There was a visible line between where the sunshine ceased and the fog began.

We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge (although we could barely see it), and headed into the hills; passing by Sausalito, where Watts wrote The Book some 44 years ago. The fog loomed through most of our mountain cruise (1N, part of the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway for those unfamiliar)). When scanning a map prior to our cruise, we took notice of John Muir Memorial Forest, and immediate consideration for a destination. John Muir's intoxication with the natural world is a constant source of inspiration to me. The man writes how he does because he is Nature in human form. Put a certain way, I suppose we all are, it is only a matter of realization. We arrived at the National Memorial to find that it in large part consisted of a redwood forest that escaped the logging craze. A worthier tribute could hardly be conceived. I was doubly ecstatic - one, to witness the grandeur of the forests that had been a major landmark of my destination, the northern Redwood National Forest portion of which was bypassed due to the green meteorological blob; two, that such beauty was the national dedication to the voice of American Nature itself. The experience of being present among these magnificent giants could only be described as magical. These living, breathing creatures, with whom I share in composition and elemental resources, have dwelt on this earth far longer than my best life expectancy - some over 1200 years old. Diplomats from another time, their sovereignty is safeguarded here, in honor of the man who was their tongue. I was drunk on their spirit. On our return back towards the bridge, the fog broke long enough to see it spilling down hillsides from a distance, blanketing all in its path, and before enough we were right back in it.

During a repose in Mikey's back yard, a hummingbird sang its heart out while perched on a trumpet vine spanning three backyards. I called back to it; it bobbed overhead in response, its body a tremendous disparity between still torso and rapidly fluttering wings. We looked at each other for a long moment, then he was back to his perch and his interests, and I to mine. That evening, it was time to take advantage of the abundance of deliciousness. Congregation around the table, and a positive crew coming together over a meal, is a powerful event. I whipped up a coconut curried vegetable dish over red quinoa that was cooked in rooibus tea, while Mikey roasted cauliflower with olive oil and spices. Big Mike's brother Dan (who now resides in Santa Cruz) had joined us, in from a job interview earlier that day, as well as several of Mikey's roommates. Great conversations and great vibes abounded.

Friday night was spent in the good company of Big Mike's friends, at a house party. We heard many an eyewitness account of Mikey's legendary status, solidifying the spread of his infectious personality from one coast to another. I couldn't get over the 8-ft fennel plants in the back yard; they grew so well here. (Subsequently, I found that fennel grows wild all along the northern California coast, so the expression of my excitement must have seemed a bit odd). It was nice to be around folks, but the atmosphere made me nostalgic to be doing the same with my own circle, thousands of miles away.

Saturday we set off to Santa Cruz for an overnight with Dan. Big Brother rode back to Santa Cruz with him while Snake and I took the scenic route down the PCH. Our first taste of the coastal route (another big scenic checkpoint on our list) was enveloped in fog. The few glimpses we did catch of the coastline gave us a taste of the marvel we would behold when we returned to traverse this route before veering east for the return. Big Mike was eager to take us to one of his favorite spots: a tree known as Tree Nine, in the woody campus of UCSC. Tree Nine was known for the rope ladder bringing one up to the base level of one of the best climbing trees around; it was such that one could step from branch to branch, until perching at the top for a view of the California coast. We arrived at the site to witness Big Mike's devastation - the branches had been cut about 50 up the trunk. There was no way to climb the tree even remotely safely. The man who brings the party had, at that moment, lost a bit of faith in humanity. We proceeded to wander around campus in envy of the students lucky enough to traverse forest paths from class to class and socialize without any regard for the fawn snacking on grass next to them.

Next it was off to Cowell's beach, a best-of-the-best local surf spot, where setup was underway for the Coldwater Classic surf tournament commencing in a few days. I have great admiration for surfing, although I have never had the opportunity to give it ago. Here they were, floating about with the unspoken respect code, waiting to catch a wave amongst dolphins and seals and ride it until close to the rocky cliff marking the terminus. We watched for some time, soaking it in, before stopping by Casino Arcade along the Santa Cruz boardwalk. While most of the gang rocked the arcade, I took the oportunity to touch the pacific water and dig my toes in the sand, marking the first half of the excellent adventure.

After an evening on the town, we awoke to an unexpected sight: the first rain in the 4-plus months that Dan, his girlfriend Rayna, and their roommates had been in Santa Cruz. We found ourselves in an interesting predicament, as we had left our rain gear in San Fran, and I had to take Big Mike home on the back of the bike (he did not pack lightly for the occasion either, in addition to my backpack). Rayna continued the good vibes by cooking us a fantastic breakfast while we pondered the ride ahead. Right after breakfast, there was a break in the clouds, so we packed up and hurriedly but sincerely said our goodbyes.

This was Mikey's first time on the back of a motorcycle for a lengthier ride. It was awkward to the point of humor (or terror) at first, and he was understandably a bit frightened, but once we were out of town his calmness took over, and he was one with the Bill/bike. The scent of eucalyptus was ubiquitous, accentuated by the recent precipitation. The eucalyptus, Big Mike informed me, is indomitably invasive in the region. Brought from Australia, it has no natural predators here, and its fallen leaves, having insufficient microorganisms to decompose them, suffocate most of the surface below its branches. I envisioned the borderline nauseating cuteness of importing koalas to quell the crisis, only to have them take over and something else be brought in ad infinitum, a hopeless cycle refusing to come to grips with the human-induced state of affairs. Big Mike commented that despite their invasiveness, our passing by via motorcycle was like "a cough drop up your nose." In a good way.

The rain and clouds eventually broke, and we stopped at one of Big Mike's favorite spots along the PCH - Panther Beach. Every bit as magnificent as anticipated - huge cliffs, crashing waves, and areas of hollowed rock from water damage. Our second destination, due to the growing hours and fatigue of a long night followed by a motorcycle ride, was passed by, but perhaps for the better: a pregnant blue whale had collided for unknown reasons with a boat at sea, and its corpse (and that of the fetus) had washed ashore in Pescadero, a town we were driving through. I was fascinated to behold the event, although Snake seemed less than enthused. According to Dan's description, the whale had completely deflated, with a huge chunk taken out of its center by oceanographers for research. Something to see no doubt, but subject to personal taste.

We spent the evening laying low, with a warm visit from a hometown friend living in San Francisco. Before bed, Mikey put on "The Parrots of Telegraph Hill," a documentary following an individual tending to a flock of parrots that had somehow emerged in San Fran (definitely by human doing, although the direct origin is a subject of debate) and began breeding on their own. It was a compelling bit of local lore to watch. I felt my eyes sinking while thoughts of parrots and the road ahead swirled about consciousness. Tomorrow, we begin the great journey home.