I've been doing a lot of complicated Bay Area navigation recently: the nature of my job is such that, on occasion, I have to do a lot of traveling all over to the stores of the company I work for - from Monterey to Santa Rosa (and sometimes Fresno or Reno), and I can find myself doing a lot of driving. I'm currently embarking on a themed tour (doing some focused mentorship, store by store) and have been to 12 stores in the last eight days, not to mention a few weekends of intense driving - Harbin one weekend, and then, this last weekend, taking my dad to interesting places all over, mostly in the city. We went to the DeYoung on Friday (the park always requires attentive navigation) and the dinner. On Saturday, it was over to Berkeley to the fabulous UC Berkeley Botanical Gardens, and the Whole Foods to stock up for the 1900 Impressionists Picnic in Alameda.
I dreaded a little bit trying to find Alameda because I hadn't clearly looked at directions - I usually google map things ahead of time to orient myself when it's places in the East Bay....I'm *starting* to learn those cities, but I still have trouble. I even told my dad, in Oakland I inevitably end up in some dead-end alley under a freeway, next to an on-ramp I need but I can't find out how to get on...usually in the middle of the night.
Naturally, we got lost on the way from Berkeley to Alameda - Dad's iPhone was set to "walking" instead of "driving' directions, and were foiled by first one-way streets and then a nasty detour. We found ourselves in some dead-end alley under a freeway, next to an on-ramp we needed but we couldn't find out how to get on....But we eventually made it. On the way home, I confidentially drove back - I know my way BACK from Alameda just fine - and I was feeling so grateful to be back in the city, where I know a dozen major routes to just about anywhere in it.
There's a certain freedom that comes from navigating a large city without a map - the exhilaration you have the first time you find your way by memory or instinct...the time you happen upon that place you went a long time but wasn't familiar enough yet to know where you were - and then realizing you've been passing close by it for years. It's like the city changes as you get to know it.
This Friday was another typical SF driving/traffic challenged - I'd planned a team build for a large (40) group at work; we decided to go to the Academy in the Park, only to later realize it was Outside Lands this weekend (giant 3-day festival thing; I'm never too fond of the lineup). Big weekend events anywhere in the city can strike a certain trepidation into the heart of any San Franciscian, and ones in the park when you have to *go* to the park - well, it can be a bitch. I sent maps of road closures to our group. Parking got bad - so bad that I overheard a guy on his phone saying, "No, the garages are full. There's no street parking. Go up to Folsom and park there. Folsom.....above the park. No, above the park."
I didn't want to be rude, but he obviously meant Fulton, not Folsom. Folsom is way the hell far away. He was also clearly talking to non-residents. They are going to be driving everywhere, I thought, if I don't act. "I think you mean Fulton," I said to him. He nodded and kept speaking into the phone, "I mean, Fulton...go up to Fulton...OK, see you soon."
What a nice connection. I felt so good, and when it was time to leave, I found my way deftly out of the park, even navigating a difficult stop at the parking-challenged Stanyan Whole Foods. I felt so proud to be able to find my was around so efficiently. Gee, it was great to be so cool, so great to be me. I decided to take the way up and over Portola and then...whoops, wait...was I on Clayton or...Ashbury goes through, I know that...but does Clayton....wait, right turn lane only...oh shit....was I on the....uh oh.
And then, I was suddenly lost, right in the middle of the city I was just telling myself I know so well. Yes, I made a classic blunder and was on a one-way street, going right up to the top of Twin Peaks. Twin Peaks is the highest part of San Francisco, and when the weather is clear, the view is spectacular, but the weather is rarely clear.
On this Friday afternoon, it was unbelievably foggy. OK, I know we're *famous* for being foggy, but this was classic, indisputable, rushing, cloaking fog, covering everything around me, stranding me in a sea of wispy white - it's never as puffy and fluffy on the *inside* of a cloud than it looks. I was going up, up, up, and all around me was bleak, bright, swirling mists. I felt like Gandalf leading the Fellowship up Caras Galadhon - when should I turn back? How far could I go?
I went up to the twin peaks, around them and through, and started to descend. I'd had my windows rolled down against the heat when I was plunged into this mircoclimate, but I kept the windows down, feeling wild and reckless. The sides of the empty road were covered with unkempt grasses and wildflowers; the delicate purple flowers stood out in the murky grayish fog as I passed by them. The drive was strangely beautiful, even though it was missing the more traditionally beautiful part the 49-Mile Scenic Drive it belongs to: the view.
FOG
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
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