Suzy Says

A beautiful day in the neighborhood

When I finished my last meeting of the day, I found myself at Fisherman’s Wharf. I decided to walk back to the hotel via Aquatic Park. I love that place. I used to go there often when I lived here, especially if I was worried or troubled. I’d sit on the shallow stone wall at the beach with my feet in the sand and watch the waves. There was something soothing about it.

So today I did the same thing.

As you can see, it was a beautiful day. In this picture, you can see the Balclutha, one of the grand old ships at Hyde Street Pier. My brother used to work there. They had a great program where inner city kids would come and stay overnight on one of these old ships. They’d each take on a role (cook, able seaman, etc.) and have to do it using only materials available when the ship was active, in the mid 1800s. My brother loved doing it, and the kids did, too.

The cement seawall you see in the first picture is the Town Pier. You can walk all the way out on it. Some people fish off it, but given the fact that the number of Bay-caught fish you can eat in a year is restricted due to the pollution, it doesn’t seem like the best idea, but to each his own.

I called Rob to check in with him about the kitties. They were all fine, he said. He kept them all in after he gave them dinner last night, and hung out a while, petting them and watching TV. I knew it was a little silly to call – after all, as Rob pointed out, if there was something wrong, would I just pack up the car and come home – but I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry to say that I probably would pack up the car and come home. Jessica is right: I’m a worrier.

Speaking of Jessica: I am going to meet Jessica and Erica this evening for dinner and a play! Just when you thought this trip couldn’t get any better!

It’s been a productive day so far

On this bright, sunny morning, I packed up the car and headed toward San Francisco. One good thing about travelling by car instead of the parade of humiliations and inconveniences – all of which you pay for – that is now known as air travel is that you can pretty much bring whatever you want. I for one never go anywhere without at least two feather pillows. This time I brought along a DVD player, so I wouldn’t be subjected to the boredom of network TV and all those commercials. You know how I feel about boredom.

Traffic was good to me as I drove past the ocean and through the stands of ancient redwoods; past the rolling hills of Sonoma, golden and red with vine leaves, dotted with sheep and lambs. The extra lane now completed near Santa Rosa has made the traditional Santa Rosa slowdown a thing of the past. I don’t think I’ll miss it, though.

My heart lifted as it always does when I cross the Golden Gate Bridge and see my beautiful city, brilliant in the sunlight. It was a postcard day, the Bay dotted with lazy sailboats and hard-working ferries. I arrived at my modest motel, just a few blocks from my gracious former apartment, at about 2:00. I called Megan to tell her I arrived safely (thanks to my Mouse) and to thank her again for taking care of the kitties while I’m gone.

After I decanted everything into the room, I set my computer to download some Christmas movies for Jessica and wasted no time in going to Polk Street. First stop was the French bakery, where I wasted no time in indulging in a canelé de Bordeaux, my favorite:

It was heavenly.

Next up was more mundane shopping, such as picking up things I forgot to bring with me at Walgreens, and buying food for the kitties at Bow Wow Meow, where they have everything. They have bags and bags of the cat food I have to special order in Hooterville. Maybe I’ll stock up while I’m here.

Finally, I stopped in at my favorite cheap nail salon to get the lovely manicure you see above. Due to the hotel room light, it looks golden, but it’s actually silver and sparkly. Usually I get understated nail polish, like Essie’s Ballet Slipper or OPI’s Bubble Bath, but today I felt sparkly and went with OPI’s Happy Anniversary. It was so nice to feel pampered and watch the passers-by.

Plans for tonight include having Thai food delivered from my friends at Lemongrass and a drink or two while watching a movie. It’s well into the 70s today – hard to believe it’s the middle of November. Tomorrow I have to be up bright and early for a day full of meetings. I’ll try and fit some fun in, though.

Crowds on Market Street. AP photo

The sun shone down on the Giants’ victory parade yesterday, as it wended its way past the iconic Transamerica Pyramid in the Financial District to City Hall, where baseball great (and native San Franciscan) Joe DiMaggio married Marilyn Monroe 56 years ago. The parade route was the same one the Giants took when they were welcomed to their new home in 1958.

Hall of Famers and former Giants players Willie Mays and Willie McCovey rode in classic convertibles at the head of the parade, symbolizing the team’s storied past. Mr. Mays, who is considered my many to be the best all-around baseball player ever, had also been in that same welcoming parade back in 1958, so I imagine his was a particular joy.

Following these legends were the current team, a scrappy assortment of misfits who somehow managed to pull off a feat that had eluded this town for more than half a century. The crowd exploded as they caught sight of playoffs heroes like 25 year old Tim Lincecum, nicknamed “The Freak” for his flowing locks and unusual pitching style, and rookies Buster Posey (23) and Madison Bumgarner (who turned 21 in August and said that he was so calm during the World Series because of pitching for the high school championships in his hometown of Hickory, NC*). Edgar Renteria, who was teetering on the brink of retirement at the ripe old age of 36, drove in a three run home run in the final, winning game and was greeted accordingly. Brian Wilson, whose infamous playoff facial hair and stellar performance as a closer led to the slogan “Fear the Beard”, jumped off his motorized cable car to get closer to the crowd, which roared its approval.

Estimates placed the crowd along the mile and a half parade route at a million, and the crowd in Civic Center Plaza at hundreds of thousands, truly remarkable in a city whose entire population is around 800,000. But that’s the spirit of San Francisco, one of the most beautiful places in the world, and truly one of the most special. To know it is to love it. And to be embraced by it, as the Giants were yesterday, is something you’ll never, ever forget.

*Fellow players have told the press that Madison asked them to stop playing hip hop in the locker room and play some country music instead. He found the language upsetting.

Well, I’m back in Hooterville.

I couldn’t afford to stay in the city today, or even pick up a pizza on my way to the Golden Gate Bridge, which made me a crabby little crabcake, I can tell you. Especially after discovering that gas is $3.17 there instead of the $3.03 it is up here. Still better than the $3.35 I noticed as I passed the Navarro Store. Yikes.

It was a postcard perfect day as I drove crankily across the bridge. Sailing ships and merchant ships were tootling around on the blue water, the city sparkled in its pastel glory, and Alcatraz looked like an incongruous resort. The city didn’t seem to be at all sorry to see me leave, though I felt the usual pang crossing into Marin, putting San Francisco behind me.

I had the Oakland A’s game on the radio to keep me company. Amazingly, I got reception all the way to Yorkville, when it finally faded at the top of the 8th inning, with Oakland ahead 4-0 (for those who are interested, they won 6-2 to sweep Seattle). By then, I could receive the Coast, which saw me all the way to the local store, where I stopped off to check the mail and get a bottle of wine.

It was so windy at the store that I could barely get the car door open, but bright and sunny.

All was well at my Henry-less hippie hovel. I wish June and Audrey were as excited to see me as I am to see them (Henry Etta was always happy to see me, and ran to the door to be petted). I always miss them when I go away, no matter how short the trip. And this was too short.

Market Street, San Francisco

Yesterday I had a few errands to take care of in town before setting off for San Francisco to attend an annual conference. Since I was already in town, I took Highway 20 instead of 128. I’m not sure if I’ve ever driven it before, but it’s as least as curvaceous as 128, and much hillier. When I arrived at Willits (home of Seabiscuit and not much else), I could see snow-capped mountains. I couldn’t help thinking of the time that Megan had to drive the ambulance, with a patient inside, through blinding snow on Highway 20. No snow tires, either. No wonder my sister is my hero.

It was the first sunny day in nine days. The ditches along the Ridge were actually flooded in places. It was good to have a change of weather and change of scene after the past few traumatic days. I checked into my usual modest motel in my former ‘hood, had Thai food delivered, and relaxed.

This morning, I dressed up, applying perfume and diamonds – a nice change from my usual ensemble of sweaters and sneakers. I enjoyed flagging down a taxi, especially since I can expense it. It was really too warm for a jacket, but it was a key part of my grown-up façade. A girl must keep up appearances. As the cab climbed Nob Hill, I noticed a man walking his teeny toy dog was allowing it to pee on the coat-covered head of a sleeping (or otherwise unconscious) homeless person.

Welcome to San Francisco.

At the Four Seasons, the doorman ushered me into the hushed splendor of the lobby. I felt the usual pang of jealousy at the discreet sign for the Residences. In the conference room, there was a sea of dark suits under heavy crystal chandeliers. I occupied myself with stealing the pen and stationery provided and making notes of conferencespeak. These are actual quotes from today’s session:

• “Inordinately impactful”

• “We sourced and due diligenced it thoroughly”
• Vertically integrated”
  And my personal favorite:

• “Bigger disparancy”

Is that a combo of discrepancy and transparency?

During the break, I enjoyed the view from the outdoor deck, and so can you:

And enjoyed eavesdropping even more:

“It’s not my fault. I was over-served.” (I’m storing that one up for future use.)

“I used to weigh 300 pounds. My Dad died in Redwood City and never saw me thin.” I don’t know what’s sadder, really: dying in Redwood City, or reacting to a parent’s death with utter vanity.

I played a few hands of business card poker and was out of there.

All in all, it was a pretty successful event.

Dazzled with glittery splendidness, I headed to 19th Avenue to start the trip home.

As I sped through the retro tunnel on Park Presidio, I tried (and failed) to remember the last time I had approached the Golden Gate Bridge this way. It was fun to take a different route, though it was sad to bid farewell to the beautiful city, gleaming in the pale, watery winter sunshine.

I have to say that it is so much easier and faster to go from Hooterville to San Francisco than it is to Oakland. Going to the East Bay adds anything from half an hour to an hour to the trip. And it’s much less scenic.

I stopped off in Boonville to give Erica and Jessica their long-delayed Christmas stockings and presents. Being Me, I managed forget my own gift for Jessica. Yes, the one I finally did a good wrapping job on. But she hardly noticed in the blizzard of gifts from Megan and Rob, Jonathan, and Lu. I noticed that she opened each one, spent some time looking at it and showing it to her friends who happened to be on hand, and then went on to the next one.

She also asked her mother if she could have a chocolate coin from her stocking, and then shared the remainder with her friends.

Their schedules are so hectic these days that it’s hard for them to visit. Meg and I are planning on going to get Jessica and keep her for a weekend soon.

Hugged and kissed, I went on my way. I noticed that it was not yet dark at 5:00, and that there were daffodils in the grass by the side of the road. The river had definitely receded.

When I got home, I was disappointed at the lack of greeting committee. Henry Etta didn’t bother getting up, and June and Audrey were nowhere to be seen (they didn’t reappear until 10:00 that night). I called Meg to tell her I was home, and of course her greeting and Rob’s made up for the cats’ lack thereof. Humans: picking up cat slack for thousands of years and counting!

We all enjoyed the extreme pizza delivery extremely. I think I’ll try and do that every time I go to the city.

View from the Legion of Honor, January 28

With my trunk full of pizza, I headed west, young lady.

West to the California Palace of the Legion of Honor, to give it its proper (long) name. It’s one of my favorite places in San Francisco, perched in a beautiful setting overlooking the Marin headlands (and the good bridge), and having a small, yet exquisite collection.

But the lure for me that day was the special exhibit Cartier and America, celebrating the jeweler to the stars’ century on these shores. And what a celebration!

The exhibit was arranged chronologically, starting with the fabulous tiaras worn by American heiresses while shopping for titled husbands in England in the early part of the 20th century. An elderly lady saw me admiring an emerald and diamond necklace belonging to Lady Granard (born plain old Beatrice Mills in San Francisco), and asked me if I’d ever wear it. “Absolutely!” I replied, without thinking, and she burst out laughing. I would, too. After all, it might as well have stayed in the ground if it’s never going to see the light of day.

Jewelry was made to be worn. And worn it was. By Gloria Swanson (the diamond bracelets from “Sunset Boulevard”, no less). By Grace Kelly (her elegant, 10.47 carat diamond engagement ring, worn in her final film, “High Society”). By Elizabeth Taylor (a set of diamond and ruby earrings and necklace, given to her by then husband, Mike Todd). By the Duchess of Windsor (her famous panther bracelet, and equally famed flamingo brooch, its first public showing ever). By Vanderbilts, Barbara Hutton, and Marjorie Merriweather Post. There was even a wristwatch belonging to Al Jolson.

I wandered from room to room, gasping at the splendor and occasionally moaning with covetousness. You can see some of the pieces here.

It was the Suziest thing ever. If I can, I’ll go back and see it again before it ends in mid-April.

When I first moved to San Francisco many years ago, I found an apartment in Russian Hill (not coincidentally, the same ‘hood featured in my beloved Tales of the City series). It was in a pre-1906 Quake building, and on the top floor, reached by a spiral staircase. When I think about the clawfoot tub, hardwood floors, formal dining room and wood-burning fireplace all at a now laughably low rent, I feel very lucky to have lived there.

Megan and Rob, who lived on a boat at Pier 39 in those days, helped me to paint the place before John arrived with the furniture and our fabulous cat, Buddy. We were starving by lunchtime, so I headed out to Polk Street in search of food. After a couple of blocks, I smelled something utterly delicious. Following my nose, I found myself at Victor’s Pizza.

I brought the pie back to the apartment, and an addiction was born. I always lived within the Victor’s delivery area when I lived in San Francisco (indeed, the apartment we bought a few years later was only five blocks from that first place on Jackson Street), and back when I used to work 50-60 hour weeks, would often have Victor’s and champagne on a Friday night.

Victor’s is more than just pizza, though. When Dad used to visit, we’d have at least one dinner there, in its dark little dining room with wooden booths, decorated with grape-shaped lamps. The service was always wonderful – Victor’s has career waiters, and delivery boys are often promoted to waiters – and it was a delightfully comfortable atmosphere. Every meal comes with soup or salad and house made rolls, and we always had to get a box to take home the leftovers.

When I lived in Oakland, I’d get Victor’s every chance I got, so this visit to the city was no exception. On my way to the Legion of Honor yesterday morning, I was lucky enough to get a parking space right out front. I went in to collect the order I had phoned in earlier, and as the cashier made out the sales slip – by hand – I told him that the pizza was going all the way to Mendocino.

He put down his pen and gazed at me in amazement. “You’re not serious!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I am,” I told him, handing over the money. I told him how I used to live in the neighborhood and still missed the place. “Don’t they have good pizza up there?” he asked, making change. “Not like yours,” I said, putting it away. “Thank you so much, ” he said, holding the door open for me. “Wait ’til I tell the guys.”

By the time I escaped from the conference, the skies had cleared. Sun! I didn’t even mind taking public transit for the second time that day, even though it’s now $2 each way. Still not as much of a fan as John Waters apparently is (who knew?).

I got off the bus a few stops early so I could stroll down Polk Street. It was fun to see which stores were still there and which weren’t, and I have to admit that I did in fact do a teeny little bit of shopping. Oh, and I got a cheap and fabulous manicure at the still-there Merry Manicures. It did make me merry.

As for shopping: a birthday card and giftlet for my dear friend Patrisha; a stop in at La Boulange de Polk for cannelés de Bordeaux, a treasured indulgence; and a near-set of espresso cups from the wonderful Molte Cose (see above). I’m sorry to say that my beautiful Swedish cup has broken*, as predicted, and I can’t find another one. Good thing there aren’t any cup actuaries.

There are five espresso cups (and saucers!) in the set, one having been stolen, so I got the remaining five and its adorable box for less than half price. So if I break one – and I will – I have four more to go.

Shopping bag in hand, I was heading back to the hotel when I passed a mother holding her son’s hand. He had a halo of blond curls and was looking up at his mother earnestly, saying “Mommy, I love the whole world.”

*Though Rob might be able to glue it back together with special ceramic glue.

Last night, I was sure that my dreams of the city would be washed away in the rain that pounded away at my roof as I prepared for a possible power outage and anxiously scanned the National Weather Service advisories.

When I went to bed, the power was still on, and the rain had stopped.

When I woke up, it still wasn’t raining! I called Caltrans and learned that the road was open. I threw a few things in a bag, did a conference call, and just after noon, I was on my way.

The road was still dotted with yellow FLOODED signs (probably staying nearby to be ready for the next one), and the Navarro river was pretty darn high. The brown, muddy waters reached high up the tree trunks on its banks. But the sun actually peeked out, and traffic was a breeze: I made the trip in three hours.

I have to admit that I enjoyed crossing the good bridge. Also that I feel like much less of a loser coming in from the country than I did from the suburbs. I’m now safely ensconced in a modest motel about a block from my old apartment (is it weird/sad/pathetic that I always stay in my old neighborhood?), enjoying the lightning-fast WiFi, Thai delivery menu at hand.

I called Meg to tell her that the Mouse had done its job and I had arrived safely. This is another of our family traditions, like waving until the departing person is out of sight. If one of us goes to the city, or, rarely, ventures further afield, we always call when we arrive.

Now neither of us has a thing to worry about. When I lived in Oakland, I was always worried about someone breaking in when I was away, in addition to worrying about the kitties. Now Rob is hanging out at my place during the day while Megan is sleeping. He can watch TV, play guitar, and listen to music with no fear of waking his sleeping wife. The cats have company, and so does Schatzi, since she goes with him. It makes me happy to know that Rob can enjoy himself there, since he does so much for me.

This looks to be the second foggy day in a row. Sometimes you can tell that it will be sunny by noon, but not yesterday and not today. Good thing I like the fog. If you don’t like it, get out of the city.

Foggy nights make me feel like I’m in a Bogart movie or a novel by Hammett or Chandler. The streets are slick from the moisture and the fog swirls around the streetlights like ghosts, making them look mysterious. Very film noir.

The fog seems to muffle all the city noises, even the cars speeding down the hill in front of our place and the birds in the tree outside our window. It makes everything seem like a dream — the pastel buildings on the hills misted over, the bay full of what looks like white clouds just sitting on the water and allowing peeks of the famous orange bridge. And of course, the low, deep sound of the fog horns under it all, the bass line of the song.

The hush is all over my apartment, too, except for me typing and Jack the Siamese kitten. She is explaining to me in loud piercing Siamese that she is either bored or lonely or about to throw up, so I better go and see what’s going on.