Friday, August 31, 2007
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Wining.
Katherine and I left San Jose this morning excited by the prospects of our day traveling around Northern California. Well, at least I was excited, and I suppose that was more because I was singing along to the Nashville soundtrack rather than the prospects of our day, but regardless, we were happy to be on the road again. That was until we met this man:
Let me introduce you to Mr. Harlow R. Marks, alleged Sierra Club member and tree advocate. Harlow, you see, sets up a table immediately outside the gates of the Muir Woods National Monument-- a largely unimpressive collection of old-growth redwoods that, seemingly due to its close proximity to San Francisco, is wildly popular with tourists. Harlow's table advertises a large sign that states something like, "Save the National Forests! Sign Petition Today!" So, being the good environmentalist that I am, and understanding personally the difficulty involved with something like petitioning, I marched right up and signed the petition.
"The way I've been doing it for years," Harlow said without introduction, "is this way, and it works out real well... It takes just a five dollar donation and then you can sign the petition."
I was obviously confused, first of all because I had of coursed already signed the petition and didn't have any cash on me and second of all because who the hell charges for people to sign a petition? "Uh... sorry I don't have any cash."
Harlow grimaced and yelped in an ornery old voice that didn't have time or patience to deal with a whippersnapper like me, "You mean to tell me that in this day and age you don't carry any cash with you?"
"In this day and age, I use a credit or debit card." I replied moving to scratch my name off with the petition with my pen.
"Well, just leave it. Fine. But don't tell anyone," Harlow said disatisfied with the turn of events. "That could start a hullaballoo." I began to walk away, when Harlow had a change of heart. "Actually, I would like to see some of these start coming back. He proceeded to pull out a small hand cut (by a three year old) card that listed in the uneven typeface of an old ditto machine "Make checks payable to Harlow Marks/Sierra Club." I looked at him slightly dumbfounded. "Wells Fargo won't let me cash checks anymore made out to the SIerra Club. Otherwise I'd have to become a company and get messed up with the government."
"Now just send me that check so you can have a clear conscience." Clear conscience? For what? Signing a petition to save the National Forest? And this from a man who is clearly ripping people off, who most likely had a cease-and-desist order come in from the Sierra Club that prompted him to get out his ink pen and mark out the little purple type that trumpeted the affiliation. Who asks for donations made out to themselves? That's a charity I want to start for sure. As a matter fact I will. Anyone interested in, ummm, saving the redwoods please make checks payable to Jacob Hustedt.
Anyway, the actual woods were rather unimpressive like I said. But we saw some redwoods and got yelled at by a crotchety old man so the day was off to a good start. As we headed off to Napa Valley, we thought things were looking up. The sun was shining and we were beginning to see rows of grape vines dotting the hillsides. We ate a lovely lunch at Buchon, Thomas Keller's cafe version of his much touted French Laundry. Everything was going to be alright... or so we thought. Little did we now that we were about to encounter are most terrifying nemesis yet:
This seemingly mild-mannered yuppie is in reality our most hated foe-- an "Ambassador" for Chandon Vinyards. Yes, that means a tour guide. Somehow Katherine and I ended up at the Disneyland of wineries. Complete with cheesy movies, a schmoozy-to-the-point-of-being-nauseating tour guide, and to top it all of the worst wine I have ever tasted. Yes, kiddies, I sampled wine today that was touted as tasting like strawberries and creme, and sadly, it actually did. The wine had about as much vintage as Kool-Aid (our tour guide assured us that the grapes ferment for the minimum time required by California state law in order to retain "that sweet fruitiness" that so many people like in their wine). Katherine and I ran away from the tour and went to the tasting early. Disgusted that we paid twenty dollars for such a shitty selection we slammed back our samples enticing the wait staff to cheer us on for being "real drinkers." Ah, the sophisticates of Napa Valley...
Very ready for the day to end we set off, and got lost, but eventually found our way down a narrow strip of forgotten highway called Highway 128. 128 twists back away from the valley through hidden vinyards and hills tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the Napa tourist industry. The sun was setting by then and the entire countryside looked golden and hushed, nearly autumnal. The air smelled like freshly tilled soil and the soft breeze cooled the warm setting sun. It was enough to make you want to sit outside, relax, and sip on a glass of Pinot Noir. We were on our way out, but I think we saw wine country at last.
Let me introduce you to Mr. Harlow R. Marks, alleged Sierra Club member and tree advocate. Harlow, you see, sets up a table immediately outside the gates of the Muir Woods National Monument-- a largely unimpressive collection of old-growth redwoods that, seemingly due to its close proximity to San Francisco, is wildly popular with tourists. Harlow's table advertises a large sign that states something like, "Save the National Forests! Sign Petition Today!" So, being the good environmentalist that I am, and understanding personally the difficulty involved with something like petitioning, I marched right up and signed the petition.
"The way I've been doing it for years," Harlow said without introduction, "is this way, and it works out real well... It takes just a five dollar donation and then you can sign the petition."
I was obviously confused, first of all because I had of coursed already signed the petition and didn't have any cash on me and second of all because who the hell charges for people to sign a petition? "Uh... sorry I don't have any cash."
Harlow grimaced and yelped in an ornery old voice that didn't have time or patience to deal with a whippersnapper like me, "You mean to tell me that in this day and age you don't carry any cash with you?"
"In this day and age, I use a credit or debit card." I replied moving to scratch my name off with the petition with my pen.
"Well, just leave it. Fine. But don't tell anyone," Harlow said disatisfied with the turn of events. "That could start a hullaballoo." I began to walk away, when Harlow had a change of heart. "Actually, I would like to see some of these start coming back. He proceeded to pull out a small hand cut (by a three year old) card that listed in the uneven typeface of an old ditto machine "Make checks payable to Harlow Marks/
"Now just send me that check so you can have a clear conscience." Clear conscience? For what? Signing a petition to save the National Forest? And this from a man who is clearly ripping people off, who most likely had a cease-and-desist order come in from the Sierra Club that prompted him to get out his ink pen and mark out the little purple type that trumpeted the affiliation. Who asks for donations made out to themselves? That's a charity I want to start for sure. As a matter fact I will. Anyone interested in, ummm, saving the redwoods please make checks payable to Jacob Hustedt.
Anyway, the actual woods were rather unimpressive like I said. But we saw some redwoods and got yelled at by a crotchety old man so the day was off to a good start. As we headed off to Napa Valley, we thought things were looking up. The sun was shining and we were beginning to see rows of grape vines dotting the hillsides. We ate a lovely lunch at Buchon, Thomas Keller's cafe version of his much touted French Laundry. Everything was going to be alright... or so we thought. Little did we now that we were about to encounter are most terrifying nemesis yet:
This seemingly mild-mannered yuppie is in reality our most hated foe-- an "Ambassador" for Chandon Vinyards. Yes, that means a tour guide. Somehow Katherine and I ended up at the Disneyland of wineries. Complete with cheesy movies, a schmoozy-to-the-point-of-being-nauseating tour guide, and to top it all of the worst wine I have ever tasted. Yes, kiddies, I sampled wine today that was touted as tasting like strawberries and creme, and sadly, it actually did. The wine had about as much vintage as Kool-Aid (our tour guide assured us that the grapes ferment for the minimum time required by California state law in order to retain "that sweet fruitiness" that so many people like in their wine). Katherine and I ran away from the tour and went to the tasting early. Disgusted that we paid twenty dollars for such a shitty selection we slammed back our samples enticing the wait staff to cheer us on for being "real drinkers." Ah, the sophisticates of Napa Valley...
Very ready for the day to end we set off, and got lost, but eventually found our way down a narrow strip of forgotten highway called Highway 128. 128 twists back away from the valley through hidden vinyards and hills tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the Napa tourist industry. The sun was setting by then and the entire countryside looked golden and hushed, nearly autumnal. The air smelled like freshly tilled soil and the soft breeze cooled the warm setting sun. It was enough to make you want to sit outside, relax, and sip on a glass of Pinot Noir. We were on our way out, but I think we saw wine country at last.
Dans et Dehors
Ahhh . . . Beef. Okay, so I don't eat it but for three days now we've been hearing about the glory that is In-n-Out Burger. "Have you been? They use fresh ingredients, you can watch them make it, and it's so clean." So after a long day walking around San Francisco we finally broke down. I had a grilled cheese that comes with everything. "It's like a burger, but without the beef." The fries were very tasty and I even had a chocolate/vanilla shake. All of this hints at the secret menu, which everyone here knows about, but I won't spoil. Anyway their standard menu is incredibly simple. Burger, Cheese Burger, Double cheeseburger, fries, and shakes. Jake had the double cheeseburger and found it quite tasty.
Here's Jake demolishing his burger.
Here's my brother with his very own chocolate/vanillla shake.
Here's Jake demolishing his burger.
Here's my brother with his very own chocolate/vanillla shake.
San Fran . . . what's with all the Saints?
My brother and sister-in-law just moved to San Jose last April so we were fortunate enough to have a place to stay in the San Francisco area. It was great to see them and where they're living. We drove into San Francisco on our second day with them and walked around the Fisherman's Wharf area. We had wanted to go over to Alcatraz but we hadn't thought to get reservations, so basically shit out of luck. We could see it from the pier but that didn't do much for us. We did get to go aboard the Balclutha, a full rigged ship built in 1886, that's moored in San Francisco Bay.
On our way out of the city the next day we passed over this strange and brightly colored structure that spanned the bay.
Santa Cruz Boardwalk
After our marathon drive up the Pacific Coast Highway we stopped in Santa Cruz and went to the boardwalk. Props to my brother for the excellent suggestion. It turns out that on Monday and Tuesday nights all the rides are ¢75. I enjoy the odd roller coaster ride and there's a pretty neat one at the boardwalk called the Giant Dipper. It opened in 1924 and is still very popular. Jake's not a fan of roller coasters but I honestly didn't think this one was going to be a big deal. I mean it was built almost 90 years ago, how scary could it be? Half the fear would be in whether the structure would hold together, not the ride itself. Jake was persuaded and though the line was sizable, it moved quickly.
Okay, first of all, the Giant Dipper was awesome. Second of all, it was hardly tame. Maybe it was my surprise but the ride was plenty exciting. The track goes up a ways and their are multiple drops (or dips), all good enough to lift you out of your seat. I could have ridden it again and again but we had other things to see.
The second best ride at the boardwalk is the carousel, built in 1911. I finally understood what going around in circles on a wooden horse is all about. After a few moments we saw people throwing something at the mouth of a big clown on one of the walls near the carousel. As it turns out, if you sit on the outside, you can grab metal rings from a dispenser that reaches over to the carousel. You have to time it right and then almost immediately throw it at the clown. If you get it in, it lights up. A mother in front of me, balancing her child on her lap, out did us all.
US-1
From LA, Katherine and I took on the somewhat daunting but totally worthwhile task of navigating the steep inclines and twisty tree-lined passages of the Pacific Coast Highway. The driving wasn't exactly easy in my 2-wheel-drive manual and we did travel the 400 miles between Los Angeles and San Francisco at an average speed of 40 mph and gas costs $4.60 per gallon along the route, but the spectacular views-- waves crashing on rocks hundreds of feet below the jagged cliffs that housed the highway, made it all worth it.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Drunk.
Los Angeles was slightly more debaucherous than anything that had come before it, but not at all as debaucherous as my last visit to Lalaland. The first night in LA I spent with Katherine and her friend Andrea. They both went to NYU together, and Andrea is currently finishing her MA at USC. We went to some bars on Hermosa Beach, where I drank too much, threw up on a floor, and somehow lost $60. "Meh," I hear the minions who have seen me wasted say, "I've seen worse." Regardless, as pennitence for my drunk and disorderly behavior I will post the following picture from that fateful evening.
Who needs a rosary when you bad dancing? Anyway, other than my drunken ass, the night was pretty fun.
The next day, Andrea, Katherine, and I went out for Mexican food before heading over to Santa Monica where we spent sometime shopping on the promenade and hanging out on the beach. It was rather cool to think that Katherine and I had made it all the way to the Pacific Ocean.
My friend Brett, who recently moved to LA for Teach for America (he's a preschool teacher!), met up with us, and I spent the rest of the evening with him.
Not needing a change in my normal LA routine, we spent the night-- you guessed it-- eating Mexican food and drinking! This drinking was done Brett-style, which for those of you not-in-the-know, consists of taking as many shots of cheap vodka in a one hour period as humanly possible (these were mostly done in the kitchen, however the last few might have been done in a cardboard refrigerator box) in an attempt to wake up in the fetal position in a strange place with a mysterious amount of pictures on your camera that you don't remember taking.
Who needs a rosary when you bad dancing? Anyway, other than my drunken ass, the night was pretty fun.
The next day, Andrea, Katherine, and I went out for Mexican food before heading over to Santa Monica where we spent sometime shopping on the promenade and hanging out on the beach. It was rather cool to think that Katherine and I had made it all the way to the Pacific Ocean.
My friend Brett, who recently moved to LA for Teach for America (he's a preschool teacher!), met up with us, and I spent the rest of the evening with him.
Not needing a change in my normal LA routine, we spent the night-- you guessed it-- eating Mexican food and drinking! This drinking was done Brett-style, which for those of you not-in-the-know, consists of taking as many shots of cheap vodka in a one hour period as humanly possible (these were mostly done in the kitchen, however the last few might have been done in a cardboard refrigerator box) in an attempt to wake up in the fetal position in a strange place with a mysterious amount of pictures on your camera that you don't remember taking.
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