Our dear friends Cathy and Hank live in a lovely corner of Mill Valley, in Marin County. I keep telling everyone I meet here that they live in a kind of paradise. I’ve tried to capture glimpses of it on my phone camera, but this evening, I discovered a beautiful piece of video, called “A walk unspoiled”, with both photos and music executed by Hank, all views taken within a stone’s throw of their lovely house. I will not try to add to the wonderful collage of photos. Enjoy.
So, Barry’s anniversary rolls around again and I’m thinking of him, drawn back to the old haunts here in San Francisco. He’s very much with me, laughing at overheard snippets, observing changes and places that haven’t changed. I took a trip to North Beach, our favourite spot to motor down to on the Honda Shadow – ideal for parking. I took the bus down as far as the Salesforce building, then walked up to Stockton to enjoy a trip through Chinatown – almost empty, since the downtown area has emptied (everyone working from home, tourism down because of multiple factors – not least the effect of US politics). It was a pleasure to walk through one of Barry’s favourite tourist spots, Chinatown, which I had never encountered without hordes of tourists. However, I suppose we mostly went there with visitors, in summer, so the crowds were to be expected. I couldn’t remember which bar was our stamping ground – maybe Red’s Place? I strolled up Grant to the junction of Columbus Avenue, one of the only streets that run diagonally across the San Francisco tidy grid of streets. I was surprised at the amount of favourite places that still remained – Tosca Cafe, Specs, Brandy Ho’s Hunan, House of Nanking, Vesuvios, City Lights Bookshop (founded by Ferlinghetti). The Condor Topless Club on the corner of Broadway and Columbus, still advertising, up the block from the Church of Scientology (“Come in for a Free Personality Test”), what used to be Cafe Italia is still there, spruced up. But best of all, Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store is there, on the corner of Washington Square. In I went, for a (decaf) coffee and a little quiche, served by a young man who, when I told him it was 30 years since I was there, said “Welcome Home”. This was where we parked the bike on the pavement (“sidewalk to you, girl”) and snuggled up in a corner of this semi-paradise for foccaccia, coffee, Anchor Steam beer, glasses of wine, the odd cigarette rather than cigar, hours of happy dreaming and hatching plans, staring out the window as the Muni 30 Stockton trundled past, and the world and his wife too. A pilgrimage well worth taking.
Brandy Ho’s Hunan Food – one of our favourites
House of Nanking
Vesuvio’s, a great old haunt
The Church of Scientology
The Condor Topless Club, blurred out, on Columbus and Broadway.
This is us, about 100 years ago…..
A beautiful day yesterday – really an Irish summers day in May, warm sun, still, with everything green and coming into blossom. I’m in Mill Valley, in the beautiful Marin County suburbs. My walk took me around the area I’m staying in, with views of Mount Tamalpais, glimpses of San Francisco Bay, interesting houses and gardens. Quite a few of the roads have no footpath, as people don’t go walking on the street – they tend to drive to a nice location to walk. I’m not even sure what I did was legal. I was getting my bearings, finding the bus stop that would take me north and south, checking out the little shopping centre nearby. I find prices here hair-raising – the dollar is almost the same as the euro, and I’m constantly checking twice to make sure I’ve read correctly. Of course, prices in a place as comfortable as Marin are always going to be a bit more, and prices in city supermarkets can be just as expensive, depending on the neighbourhood. In the Mission, I spotted 3xpunnets of strawberries for $3, a huge selection of fish, all less than $10 per pound, vegetables for bargain prices. What I found astonishing was that vegetables are about double the price of Ireland in most places – yet, they produce it all themselves, right down the road, in the Central Valley. Of course, I have to keep reminding myself that it’s a different standard of living altogether. They voted here recently to raise the minimum wage to $16 per hour, though how anyone could pay rent and living costs on that is questionable. There’s a lot of wealth here, so for the majority, it’s all affordable.
One of the other features here is that they have no NCT/MOT equivalent, just an emissions test to make sure you’re not polluting the neighbourhood. But you can drive any car if you can keep it going. My friends down the peninsula have seven cars, not quite vintage, but kept in good condition by my friends’ skills and diligence. My friends in Mill Valley have a 20 year old car, still motoring along fine. Of course, insurance gets cheaper here as the car gets older, as opposed to the ridiculous hikes in insurance costs in Ireland once the car is 12-15 years old. Then again, cars just don’t rust here in California, though that mustn’t be the case in other states, that have weather more like Ireland. Maybe the market is so huge here, insurance companies make enough, whereas Ireland, being an island, is always screwed by them.
I went to the city last Sunday, in order to join a Homeschooling Playground Meeting – and hope to repeat again this Sunday. I had difficulty joining any of the obvious Facebook pages, as I didn’t have a child (except my grown-up one), and I’m part of the Irish home-educating organisation Home Education Network. The biggest group seemed to be the rather conservative Christian group, but there were some more unschooling type groups, which I accessed and hence, got to the meeting. Such a great bunch of parents, some very engaged Mums and Dads, and a group of kids who were happy to make instant friends and play for a couple of hours – who says they miss out on “socialisation”? There are some big differences in how home-schooling works here. During Covid, many parents formed “pods”, hiring a teacher for half-a-dozen kids, going to different houses, and the parents continued working full-time. This has continued, with people forming homeschooling “schools”, if you like, with kids following the school curriculum, and, it seems from Facebook posts, also doing maths or science or whatever extra-curricular classes. I had a home-ed friend, Hannah, who said her kids could either do school or extra-curricular, both together stressed both parent and child. But maybe these “pod” parents are ambitious types themselves, who want the best for their kids – and want them occupied at all times. There is no funding for home-educators in the city of San Francisco- much to the surprise of some new arrivals to home-ed here. However, outside the city limits (San Mateo County to the south, Golden Gate Bridge to the north) there is funding – about $3,000 per annum, if you form a connection with a charter school (small, private schools, not publicly funded), and have a special teacher oversee your work (following a curriculum). So far, I’ve found far more curriculum-based home educators than unschoolers here in San Francisco, but I’m meeting a group of unschoolers this week – which should be interesting. This was the route we travelled with Clare, long ago.
Overview of unschooling: https://www.usnews.com/education/k12/articles/what-to-know-about-unschooling
I remained in the Noe Valley/Mission – the place I am most comfortable in the city, and wandered down to pals in the outer Mission for a big veggie dinner en famille. I had hoped to catch up with George, the son of a dear friend who was our neighbour 30 years ago, on 18th and Valencia, but he was working on Sunday. But over the phone, we realised that he was great friends with this family, they had worked on murals together, known each other for years. So, George came to dinner too – what a surprise – where two ostensibly unrelated set of friends are actually best buddies! We had great reminiscing – George was about four or five the last time I saw him, his little brother was about two and Clare was about two as well.
The following day, I was invited to my dear friend Bea’s Middle School library. Memories of our school library at the same age conjure up a dusty room full of ancient hardbacks – the classics, no doubt – but nothing remotely interesting for us then. This library was bursting full of interesting corners. The book section was cordoned off, with comfy rocking chairs, close to the ground, an invitation to cozy reading. Every other part was a warren of craft materials, special interest areas, tables and cozy booths for the Dungeons and Dragons club, a whole shelf of traditional cups and saucers for when they have a coffee and cookie morning, murals and collages and photos everywhere. Up the other end, the English Lit teacher was co-ordinating a group who were making posters for their debating event. Everything spelled inclusion and welcome. The kids were encouraged to bring their lunch to the library and eat there, and indeed clean up after themselves. Two lovely early teens joined my table to make birthday cards with a nifty design press, glue, pens and markers. They were such fun, detailing who they planned to give the card to, what they were going to draw/write, even telling us about when they like to eat their lunch “I eat about every two hours throughout the day. I don’t feel like eating at lunch hour, I save my food for the bus on the way home, I really enjoy it then”. All of these kids were interested in my accent, where I came from, what I was doing there, did I like it in San Francisco. Oddly enough, this splendiferous Middle School, in a rather posh area, doesn’t have anyone from that area in it – they’re all going to private schools, out of the area. The kids here come from mixed areas, and would never be able to afford to actually live in that district.
After this marvellous morning, I was collected by the aforementioned George, to go on a mural tour of the Mission. Though George works as a longshoreman (who have a noble tradition of standing up for the Little Guy, as in the strike for better wages and conditions right in the middle of the Depression. https://www.foundsf.org/index.php?title=The_General_Strike_of_1934), he is also a fine mural painter, and has contributed much to his birthplace in the Mission. Many of the murals depict the concerns of the Latino community who live in the Mission, the violence or killing by police, the pride in their neighbourhood, the importance of maintaining their cultural heritage, and cultural and historical landmarks plus pure Americana. One of George’s murals is directly opposite where we used to live, on 18th Street, at Cherin’s car park (amazingly, still there), another he contributed to is a memorial for a neighbour and friend of all these young people (and parents) – Sean Monterrosa – shot by the police in the East Bay. Another, at the Precita Eyes Community Centre, depicts various scenes from the area around Precita Park. Yet another (Once upon a time in the Mission) shows iconic symbols of Latino life, present and past. A most wonderful immersion in my favourite area of San Francisco city. From there, they took me to Folsom and 19th, where we had a delicious Mexican lunch at Chuy’s Fiestas, in the backyard, under a marquee, best of food and company.
What more could I add to this fantastic day? Well, that evening, I was lucky enough to be chosen to open the Storytelling Monday at the Marsh Theatre with a poetry reading. I don’t know how they keep going – maybe it’s full at the weekends or something, but there was a small enough audience for that night, but an enthusiastic one. My cousin Monica came down to join in, with friends and neighbours aplenty. The storytelling was wonderful, funny, tragic, hair-raising, hilarious, by turns, and we then had a Q&A for our audience to cross-examine our practice. After this, we headed for an Indian restaurant nearby, where more talk, questions and post-mortem took place. Then, next day, back to the ferry to Sausalito, except it wasn’t going. No notice, no explanation, but a replacement bus. It felt like Ireland – odd ineffficiency, coupled with lots of good humour, chat and advice. And although it isn’t as exciting as the ferry, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge by bus is still incredibly exciting.
Gerry, friend and storyteller, with Lulu, poet, at the Marsh Theatre, Mission Street.
We went into the Depot for coffee one morning, It’s a self-service cafe smack bang in the middle of town, You pay the cashier for whatever you order and collect it from the counter, then search for a table that’s free – it’s a busy place. I found it funny that the cashier, when processing my card, turned the screen back to me with three options for tipping 18%, 22% and 25%. It’s self-service, nobody is serving me, but they expect me to pay a tip. This happened again at a fancy-schmancy Health Food Store, just for selling me the item, they “suggested” leaving a tip, and it’s becoming more common everywhere – at the bakery, getting takeaway fish and chips, anywhere that you use a debit card. Again, at the relatively expensive fish shop – when paying by card, the “option” to tip. This is done with the shop assistant/cashier standing in front of you, embarrassing you into tipping. When eating in a restaurant recently, I requested the waiter to round up the amount as a tip, and there was a further “service charge” added on after that. When I asked him what it was for, he said he didn’t know. The best thing to do for waiters is to give them a cash tip, but as for tipping shop assistants just for ringing up your items, I’m just wondering whose idea is it and does the employee get paid so little that they need it?
When we travelled in Mexico, more than three decades ago, people there would chat to us and ask who we were visiting. When we explained that we didn’t know anyone, we were just travelling, they’d look at us with sympathy, as they always had family or friends to visit when they travelled. Now I know what they mean. Basing your travels around seeing friends rather than places is such a real gift. I’ve been staying with really dear-to-me old friends, it’s been very life-affirming to renew connections and real love, after so many years of just occasional messaging. I’m having such a great time, seeing beautiful places just by-the-way. I was staying in Petaluma, first with schoolpal Denise, whose husband was away, and her four dogs – two senior dogs who have difficulty walking, and two young ‘uns, who need walking every day. We have so much chat to get through, always, as we went to the same school, Loreto Abbey Dalkey, which Denise’s old pal, in his thick accent dubbed “Loredda Abbey Doggy”. Back in the day, she and her dear roommates took us in when we arrived as hopeful illegals to San Francisco (to the same dramatic rainstorms) in February 1986. After that, we had years of picnics, parties, Thanksgivings together, as we moved into the city and a life in The Mission. There was a laugh a minute as we baked bread together, learned about the foibles of each dog, reminisced, shared, laughed again. We drove up to Dillon Beach twice, a place that’s a sort of doggy-heaven, with people walking their dogs by an awesome, quite rough, sea – it had been full moon, so there was a Spring Tide. The following day, we returned, and walked the full beach, walking around the point to Tomales Bay, which is a little calmer, to throw ourselves in to the icy California current (much colder than Ireland!) to screams of pain and pleasure, then to throw in a handful of Barry’s ashes, happy to let them float downstream to Mexico, or blow off on the strong wind over the Bay.
Then I went to stay with Sarah and John – we worked in Houlihans together, then in the Hard Rock Cafe. We travelled up to Gualala via the coast road in the intermittent rain – very like Ireland – green and lush with fabulous views. In a couple of months it’ll be all yellow – dried-out from hot sun, so I’m seeing it at a good time. We stopped at the Gualala Hotel, now closed, a most wonderful Wild West kind of place, wooden, with a big balcony, where Clare was conceived in the upstairs bedroom, and had a moment thinking of those wonderful days. We spent hours talking about families, work, the intervening years. I got to meet their son (who I had known as a little guy!), wife and grandchildren, I even fitted in a poetry reading with some family members. Petaluma itself is a rather-too-perfect city of about 60,000 people. It’s a pleasure to walk around, with a tidal river called a Slough (like the Slough of Despondency), which is a wetland with a slow-moving body of water. Petaluma has traditionally been a great centre for eggs and chickens, at one stage it claimed to be the egg capital of the world, and I spotted one garden with a huge sculpture of a chicken.
Now I’m back down in Mill Valley with Cathy & Hank. Rainy yesterday, but we took a break in the rain to walk out Tennessee Valley to see a stormy sea. We got soaked on the way back but picked up fish & chips and sat by the fire. Thoroughly bracing, I slept like a baby. I’m doing Open Mic on Monday in the city at the Marsh Theatre, so going in Sunday morning to firstly catch a home education gathering in Noe Valley, near where we used to live. It’s been quite a job to be able to access any home-ed FB pages, as some are fairly strictly Christian, but this crowd on Sunday are unschooling, so much more relaxed. Should be interesting. Then I hope to meet George Harry, a mural painter and activist, who we knew as a little boy back in SF. I’m going to visit his lovely parents who moved to Maine, when I get to east coast, Mary & George, who were our neighbours when the kids were tiny. Then staying over with Bea & Gerry, lovely old radicals, it’s like home there, totally comfortable household, absolutely lovely. Gerry also doing open Mic Monday, storytelling.
After that, seeing a very dear friend Helen, who’s coming down from Portland to see me, fitting in any others I’ve missed, having a moment with Cathy & Hank to scatter some of Baz’s ashes in their garden, then heading to East Bay to stay w lovely cousin Maureen in Oakland. Packed schedule there, then she drops me to the train from San Francisco direct to New York City, three and a half days of Seeing Real America. Then the east coast begins for me. Another 6 weeks of adventure, seeing very dear old friends, being thankful for my curiosity and connection and good health. Not sure what weather will be like, but I have winter gear for every possibility. (Wore shorts and a big coat last week to go to Dillon Beach for an icy swim!) Divine.
Yesterday, we travelled in together to visit SFMOMA. It opened just as we went back to Ireland, so I never got to see it. It’s in the middle of downtown, so we took the opportunity to avoid the worst of the traffic, and also provide me with a thrilling San Francisco hill-ride, with great views of the bay and bridges in the distance from the tops of hills, before the stomach churning plunge downwards. We drove through the Tenderloin, which was always seedy and rundown, but now has a large amount of people hanging out on the street, perhaps living there, maybe just lost there. So many people have a cluster of problems – homelessness, mental health issues, addiction to alcohol or the newest drug, Fentanyl. This relatively new substance is 50 times stronger than heroin, 100 times stronger than morphine, so is often associated with overdose, both accidental and deliberate. This disproportionally affected teenagers during Covid, I presume because of lack of experience, and a willingness to experiment. On the street, you see many people bent over, or leaning heavily on a wall, or collapsed on the ground, oblivious to the world, their paltry belongings strewn around them, or a tent pitched for shelter when they surface again. Most of the buildings we passed on Larkin Street were shabby apartment blocks or “hotels” – doss houses subsidised by the State for many years now. This is the contradiction and result of Third Wave Capitalism. Driving through the Tenderloin, we get to the downtown area, where you feel dwarfed by the height of the buildings. Much like Ireland, this area is 36% vacant, office blocks that no longer need the space, as everyone is working from home. We walked down to Yerba Buena Gardens, with a waterfall memorial to Martin Luther King
“No, No, we are not satisfied and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream” MLK Jr, Washington 1963.
Behind the falls, there were quotes from him too, so very relevant right now:
“We must rapidly begin to shift from a thing-orientated society to a person-orientated society. When machines and computers, profit motives and property rights are considered more important than people, the giant triplets of racism, materialism and militarism are incapable of being conquered”. Thoroughly silenced by such brilliance, we headed for SFMOMA.
The structure itself is a piece of art – enormous entrance hall, double, triple height, a vast stairway leading to the galleries. There are 7 levels, a staggering amount of art to see. We settled on one exhibition for starters, Zanele Muholi, a South African artists work of being LGBTQI in South Africa (tremendous), a whole floor of huge abstract paintings that had me itching to lift the paintbrush, and a wonderful installation by Icelandic musician/conductor Ragnar Kjartansson: The Visitors, in which a group of musicians play a piece reminiscent of Sigur Ros, in different rooms of a huge house, all with Mic and earphones, appearing on 9 huge video screens in a darkened room, lasting about 30 minutes. Really heavenly. After this we had lunch in the SFMOMA cafe and strolled up to the car to head back to the utter comfort of the fire in Mill Valley.
On the Ferry to Larkspur.
I am walking the Embarcadero
towards the ferry building,
past the crazy giving out to his stuff,
past the downtown,
Transamerica, Salesforce Dildo,
to give a buck to a busker
without a note in his head,
because all buskers are Baz.
To stand under the Bay Bridge
think of us driving thirty-six hours straight
from Mexico to San Francisco,
arriving in high from lack of sleep
over that Bay Bridge, and see
Coit tower, Embarcadero, the sign
saying Port of San Francisco.
Watching the city shrink to toy buildings.
The ghost of the Golden gate
peep out behind Angel Island.
The pretty headlands of Marin,
the powder puff clouds
dusting a light layer of fog
on Mount Tamalpais. And the tears
finally come, for the ghosts of us
holding our adventure in both hands,
mere babes, newly minted, awed
on the streets of San Francisco.
I travelled back to Marin County via ferry, which is like a tour of the bay, with glimpses in every direction of bridges, headlands, islands. What a feat of engineering and architecture San Francisco is; all those bridges connecting the City and Marin to the East Bay, Richmond, Berkley and Oakland. Golden Gate Bridge constructed 1933, Oakland Bay Bridge 1936, Richmond Bridge 1956. Then the city itself, the challenge of hills everywhere, and the advantage of beautiful views from the top of them. From the beautiful Painted Ladies – Victorian houses – to the astonishing tract housing of Daly City, which I spotted from the BART – Bay Area Rapid Transport – all built on steep hills, all painted different colours as Pete Seeger sang:
Little boxes, little boxes,
little boxes made of ticky tacky
theres a pink one and a green one
and a blue one and a yellow one
and they’re all made out of ticky tacky
and they all look just the same.
(written by activist Malvina Reynolds in 1962, about tract housing developments in Daly City, south of San Francisco).
The Painted Ladies are Victorian or Edwardian houses that sprung up in the second half of the nineteenth century, constructed in hilly terraces, to house the new arrivals to the city. The Gold Rush only lasted around 5 years, but the population of San Francisco doubled from 150,000 to 300,000, with construction continuing as the city grew. In 1908, Sears-Roebuck began selling houses from their catalogue, all materials provided, you built it yourself, which continued through 1930’s. During the second World War, Military/Industrial production and shipbuilding brought many workers, and during this era, methods of building more temporary housing improved. The Tract housing found all over the Bay Area boomed in the post-war era, with many military settling after Pearl Harbour, and industry continuing to grow. My friend Barbara said that they joked when they were buying a house that they couldn’t buy one of these houses, as you’d never find your own one if you’d had a few beers. They are astonishing in that they would remind you of the kind of house your kids might build if you gave them an old washing-machine cardboard box and a lot of paint. And yet, their ultra-clement weather ensures that these houses hold, and are just as solid in their own way as any Painted Lady.
- Painted Ladies, Victorian/Edwardian houses, usually painted in bright colours, emphasising detail.
- Flat-roofed tract housing, in Daly City, south of San Francisco, usually painted in pastels.
- Sears-Roebuck kit house, 1925 (a great pity they’re not still doing them).
Before I got my ticket sorted for San Francisco, I got in touch with any of the people I could who had worked at the Hard Rock Cafe. When we worked there, we had to wear a white uniform and hat reminiscent of an old-fashioned nurses uniform, with many customers making wisecracks about nurses and their functions. I kept in touch mostly by social media, and discovered that some of my contacts were no longer contactable. However, a lovely bunch of past waitrons and bartenders answered the call, and we had a tremendous get-together in a great venue on 22nd Street called the Latin American Club. There were screeches of recognition, head-scratching remembering when we had worked there together, stories swapped, new life-stories added. And for all the grumbling and complaining we did about conditions at the time, we all agreed that it definitely helped us to get through college, fulfill our dreams, or just have a good time. I had totally forgotten until this evening that I had written a big report/complaint on the objectification of women in the HRC and handed it in to management before I left. I don’t even remember clearly what I wrote, and I doubt I have a copy. The best bit about the Hard Rock was the selection of great co-workers you got to know. All of us did a sort of speed-dating, moving around the tables to get to talk to people we hadn’t seen in years, catch up on where we are and what we did in the intervening time. We did a lot of talking and a couple of hours passed in a flash, with us all promising to meet again soon.
I had spent the day taking the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transport) up to the city, calling into City College to try and locate the Archive Department. I attended the college in the 1990’s, and when Clare was a baby, in order to keep up my credits, I edited the school magazine, and in the process, I published several poems myself, under the name of Brigid Dillon, my grandmother. I was trying to locate copies of them from archival material, but had no luck, despite help from the most obliging librarians and admin staff. Speaking of poetry, I have been invited to read some poetry in between my friend Gerry and others, at the Marsh on Valencia Street on Monday 4th March, and am delighted of course. I stayed over after the Hard Rock gathering with friends in the Mission, and was so graciously brought down to the main station the following day to catch the train south to Salinas, where I spent a happy hour or so in the John Steinbeck Museum, which had be wanting to re-read all those great books and see the movies again. Then on to meet a dear friend and her adorable daughter, part of our California family back in the day, when we used to go and see them in Pope Valley, a little north of Napa Valley. We only had one evening together, so we barely drew breath, talking and reminiscing, looking at heaps of old photos of all of us young, in sunshine, at the lake.
In the morning, she drove me to a Starbucks off the freeway, where I was handed over, like Pass the Parcel (as my friend Cathy would jokingly say) to another dear friend from way back when, who would drive me to their ranch in Paso Robles. They were a couple who lived on Fairoaks Street, one street over from Guerrero Street, our first apartment in San Francisco, in, I think, 1987. He spotted Barry, carrying drywall tools after work one evening, and the two became great friends and workmates, the four of us having great dinners and fun together over the years. They bought a ranch 20 years ago and moved south to Paso Robles, halfway between San Francisco (her hometown) and Los Angeles (where he grew up). I approached with trepidation, writing to ask if they’d like to see me, and got a great welcome.
On the way down, the landscape was different – miles and miles of vines, with intermittent wineries for tours and tastings. Traditionally, people went north to Napa Valley, but now further south is making a name for itself. I know that there’s always been an issue in Napa Valley, as the wineries use an enormous amount of water (and, indeed, great resentment towards Southern California, who took water from Northern California). While we lived in San Francisco, we had rationed water, because of shortages/drought, while the wineries took plenty – but then, that’s business for you. Needless to say, we never stopped talking for the two-hour journey. She filled me in on the ranch and their situation. They have 10 acres of grassland, hilly site, and are hobby farmers. They have had up to 35 sheep, but now only keep 8-10 sheep. The breed is Barbados Black belly. They don’t have wool in the usual sense, just smooth hair, and are more reminiscent of goats than sheep. They also have a big family of laying hens and two large white, very friendly dogs to guard them. It tends to be that he looks after the sheep, she looks after the hens (and she has a little egg business, which covers the hens and dogs food).
However, the most interesting thing was that they have two houses – one, a very luxurious upgraded two-bedroom mobile home on top of the hill, and the original family home, a traditional-looking farmhouse down in the valley, approximately 5 minutes walk away. They decided some time back that they couldn’t live together, so took a house each. However, they are still best friends, so help each other with animals and projects, often eat together at her place, or watch a film by the fire in his place. They love travelling and camping together, they both adore their adult sons and partners, they consult each other on stuff. They just don’t /can’t live together. I found this really fascinating – I know so many couples who would love this set-up in later life, but very few have the luxury of two houses on 10 acres.
The weather was very wet and windy, so we sat around talking for hours and hours. So much had happened in 30 years, and I had had minimal contact with her – just the odd post on Facebook – he’s a very non-tech person, so doesn’t do any social media or email. Barry had been so close to him, they had had years of doing work together, having a beer together, smoking a joint together, probably bitching about WAG’s, asking opinions and advice – but I’m just surmising there. I’d forgotten that he’d sold us at least two cars over the years – wonderful vehicles that we drove to Mexico and back, and gave Barry help and repairs and advice about cars. He still keeps a stable of 7 semi-vintage cars (certainly pre-computerised), which are an investment, like pieces of art, that can be sold in case of need. A baby lamb had just been born, and the mother had no interest in feeding him, so my friend had a job trying to decide the best method to use, with help from the vet, for the little pet lamb to survive. In between lovely meals together, we talked about how our lives have changed, how our grown-up kids are doing, how California and the USA has changed, how Ireland has changed, and how we’re coping with all those changes and moving ourselves right along. Part of that is their new living arrangement – I stayed in the “girls” house, but could have stayed in the “boys” house if I’d wanted to – we both went down to enjoy chatting by the fire one night (and an impromptu poetry reading). But most days, she and I went out and about like visitors.
First dry day, we looked up a great hippy-dippy Hot Springs called Franklin’s Pond in Paso Robles. I’d got the recommendation from my dear radical friends in San Francisco. They’ve been coming to Paso Robles for years, to a rather pricey Mineral Springs attached to the local hotel, and heard about this place, a loveable run-down place with great pongy sulphur hot water, a lovely set-up, toilets and changing room, and, I imagine, a cafe in summer. Well, at $8 for seniors, we were definitely going to give it a whirl. Tremendous to get into hot water on a sunny day in winter, we lolled around and gave ourselves a mud facepacks, talked and swam, eventually packing up, promising ourselves a repeat next day. Next day was even better, less people, and we had ducks visiting the pond from nearby bigger ponds. From here, we travelled to the coast, an incredibly beautiful drive through lush green hills (which will be golden brown by summer, dried out), to Piedras Blancas viewing point to see the Elephant Seals – prehistoric looking mammals, males with a big proboscis moving at surprising speed, most of them sleeping on the sand, females occasionally letting young ones nurse from indented nipples while they slept on their backs on the beach. The beach was covered with sleeping elephant seals, maybe exhausted because of breeding and birthing season. Utterly fascinating to watch their nearly-human behaviour. Then drive back to sit by a warm stove for the last evening of chat and reminiscing.
- Franklins Pond hot springs with ducks
- Male Elephant Seal with proboscis
- Elephant seals asleep on the beach
- Beginning Hard Rock Cafe reunion party “Older & Wiser”
Is there anything more atmospherically romantic than the wail of a train passing through your town, deep in the night. I arrived to Burlingame by train. The rails run right through town, and the train is a very high version, with a choice of upstairs or downstairs. The train’s last stop is San Jose, and I am transported to the kitchen, with my mother, singing along to Dionne Warwick singing Do you know the way to San Jose? Then thinking of the next line: I’ve been away so long, I may lose my way...and that is me, like Rip Van Winkle, trying to piece together the remnants of my city, my memories, my heart.
On the way to Burlingame, you pass Bayshore Boulevard, where large swathes of boggy land are interspersed with industrial buildings. I briefly wondered why this part of town wasn’t developed, then quickly realized that the rainstorm last week had flooded much of the nearby rails, so I guess it’s a flood plain, though California’s climate problems are far more likely to involve fires rather than flooding. This is the area that Barry used to visit daily to call into Grabber for drywall mud, then mooch on down to pick up tools and materials from a selection of hardware stores. When I went to Goodmans Hardware Store to buy a US adaptor plug, I was reminded of Barry waxing lyrical about the great service in hardware stores in USA, which he sorely missed when we went home to Ireland (though, to give them their due, our local Cullen Steel were pretty much perfect before they were squeezed out by the bank during the downturn). Here I am in the industrial boondocks of San Francisco, thinking about whether I could carry back Barry’s taping-and-jointing tools to sell them or give them to someone who would actually use them, thinking of the effort that went into the two little immigrants buying them.
I’m here to spend time with my lovely cousin Julie. I managed to not give myself enough time to get to the train station, and missed the train I was planning to get. However, it was a pleasure to spend time in the Railway Station, which was surprisingly clean, bright and had a takeaway cafe. This is also a third cousin, and we’ve been talking a lot about family. Our families, families in general, our own upbringing. We walked around the centre of Burlingame, checking out where we might have lunch, and settled on a cozy spot for that essentially Californian institution – half a sandwich matched with a cup of soup, and started a conversation that has continued ever since. She lives on El Camino Real, translated as the Royal Highway, the original 1,000 Km road that connects 21 Spanish Missions in California, from Sonoma in the north to San Diego in the south, each Mission being roughly 1 day’s horseride from the next one. These days, it’s still a busy road, but freeways have long since taken over as the best way to traverse the state. There are huge eucalyptus trees lining the road, 150 years old, one of which came down last year, luckily falling away from Julie’s building rather than on it. These trees were imported from New Zealand, to provide wood for building lumber during the Gold Rush, but it was discovered that the wood split, and was full of oil – a fire risk in wooden houses – so they remained for shade all over San Francisco.
My cousin suggested we go driving to Pacifica and Half-Moon Bay, a drive I hold close to my heart, as it was one of our favourite weekend outings when we lived here. We had a pet day – clear blue skies, warm sunshine, no breeze. We crossed the peninsula to the open Pacific, down Highway 1 south. Fantastic surf at Rockaway Beach, and we stopped to watch the sea at the SeaBreeze Motel. Travelling further along the coast to Half-Moon Bay, a large horseshoe curve, we headed for lunch in Duarte’s in Pescadero, a dotey little town. Actually, nothing was open in Pescadero, everyone closed for Tuesdays. We had a good laugh about this, both drooling at the prospect of the artichoke soup, then headed up the peninsula again to the Half Moon Bay Brewing Company, a restaurant with a nice view of the water. We ordered fresh crab, as it’s in season, and spent a happy hour picking the seafood out of the crab claws. Then back over the hill to home. Below are lines that Barry wrote to me when I was struggling with my final year in college, in which these lovely places appear.
Long living, deep loving, or lines for when you’re defeated.
Listen and remember us
preparing for our journey
across prairie desert mountain.
Anticipation-
in the Paradise lounge, The Albion, Cafe Bohemia,
driving 280 to San Jose,
Highway 1 to Pacifica,
drinks at Half Moon Bay,
eating at the Red Crane on the way back.
Take strength from where and how we were,
where and how we are,
where and how we will be.
The tunnel you’ re looking at is short,
the light bursting in from both ends will soon reach the middle.
Play the game, the time for you to shine will come very soon.
Today it was scheduled to rain, so mostly, people stayed home. I managed to find Rooibos tea and some decaf black tea in the local specialty shop – where I also found a box of Brandy liquer chocolates for Julie for Valentines Day. The only other ones available were Russian ones – but I found out that there are a lot of Russians living locally, they even have a splendid Russian Orthodox church a few blocks down, with an impressive gold onion dome. I met my cousin’s son Brendan today and his partner Kahalla, who is Hawaiian and dances Hula (which is a spiritually based practice, as opposed to the stereotype we have in our heads of tipsy tourists wearing lei’s – garlands – in Elvis movies). They came to a great fun dinner, where cousin Julie invented a new dish – fried ravioli – reminscent of flattened Sombreros – or, as Brendan put it “Ravioli Pot Stickers”. Lots of rain forecast for the weekend, when I’ll be further south, but they need it here at this time of the year, if they want to avoid drought later on and reduce the risk of forest fires.
I was dropped by my dear friend Cathy to an unrecognisable San Rafael, where we drove along Auto Row – a road with car dealer after car dealer, all clustered together – I guess for convenience when you go shopping for a car. The cars look huge to my eyes, but then the car is King here. In lovely sunshine, I got a travel card and took the Golden Gate bus to San Francisco. Every moment was an opportunity to try and recognise places, read Highway signs, and encounter the glory of the views from Golden Gate Bridge, coming into the city. As we swung down Van Ness Ave, I was glued to the window, counting off the side streets til we got to California, site of the old Hard Rock Cafe. I had to get off here to see the faceless business that has replaced it, and transfer to my beloved 49 Muni bus to take me to Market Street. Some part of me had hoped that the old Muni bus drivers might still be driving the wheezing old machines I used to take 30 years ago, where half the people on the bus were using illegally-bought transfer tickets, and my favourite old driver used to cheerfully occasionally announce that we should all watch our purses, as there was a well-known pickpocket on the bus that he’d recognised. This driver was ultra-friendly, announcing the street names, adding “Hard Rock Cafe! Get your merchandise here!”. The drivers now are trained to not speak, not smile or chat, and of course, they’re young, my old driver is long since driving the Muni bus in the sky.
I got off at Market Street, a long street that diagonally crosses the city’s perfect grid of blocks. I had heard there was a homeless problem, but San Francisco has such a great climate, both politically and weather-wise it’s always had a homeless problem. The first thing I encountered was three homeless men, with all their worldly goods, in a corner of Market Street, standing facing each other with their pants dropped. I first assumed they were about to have a pee, but realised they were injecting into their groins. The spread of the drug fentanyl is a serious problem here, and increasingly elsewhere too, and it has increased visibility of homeless people here. However, for such a liberal city, I was surprised that they didn’t have injecting rooms – or maybe they do, I’ll have to find out. Many of them sleep on the street during the day. It used to be that there were “bad” areas where you could get a place to stay, but property and rent prices have got so beyond most people’s reach that everything becomes a real-estate target.
I jumped on a vintage streetcar just for the heck of it and got off at Safeway to do some shopping. A man with a dog was outside, and I smiled at the dog, trying to negotiate drinking water with one of those big plastic collars on. “What are you smiling about” he snarled and gave me a lecture on all the people who were against him and his dog. There are people on edge everywhere. But there are also wonderful friendly people who’ll smile or give directions or help you with finding out how something works. So, maybe, same as it ever was, but more so.
I arrived at my cousin’s house in the Castro, walking through the most well-known gay district. There are rainbows everywhere, including on the road at the pedestrian crossing, a welcoming feeling for all colours of the rainbow, a relaxed ownership of rights and lives. It’s all steep hills and a mixture of mostly wooden houses all stuck together going up those hills. My cousin has a tremendous view from the front of her house, which shows the most remarkable feature of the city – just how low-rise it is – I presume it’s because of earthquakes. Only the downtown area is high-rise, with a Salesforce building that looks like a dildo blocking out the view of the Transamerica building – which was the tallest building when I was last here. The city is white in the sunshine. They consider it to be winter still, but the sun is warm in the middle of the day. My cousin is actually my third cousin – our great-grandfather’s were brothers. When I was here in the 1990’s, my sister asked me to research a graveyard in Livermore – where our ancestor-in-common moved in the late 19th century. At the time, I met this lovely cousin and her branch of the family, and my Family Tree enthusiast sister extended the invitation to our cousins to be closer.
I had a wonderful time here with my cousin, checking out her garden, walking downhill to the bakery to buy sourdough, and then having dinner with another two third-cousins. The two younger ones were 71 this year, the two older about to be 78 and 80 this year. But what dynamic conversation we had. All of us, of course, agreeing that the prospect of Trump is a disaster. Talking about the city and the major problems it has. The downtown area is apparently like a ghost town, as people embrace working from home. So cafes, restaurants, even department stores are boarded up. According to another friend who works in a downtown hotel, hotels are half-empty – a result of anti-US feeling because of America’s support of Israel via arms, media etc. The conversation went hither and yon, with lots of family talk – did our ancestor have 16 children or 10 children? Either way, there’s lots of cousins.
From my cousins house, I set off through Mission Dolores Park, to the area where we lived most of our life here – Mission Street and its environs. I kind of dreaded what I would find, as reports of the city aren’t good. However, Mission Street remains noisy, crowded, full of huckster shops and Taquerias, Latin music and odd pubs and venues. I went on a pilgrimage to find houses we lived in, having difficulty remembering the exact locations. But when I found them, what a sentimental journey it was, recalling where we lived as immigrants from Ireland, where we lived when Clare was born, where we lived when we returned from a trip to Mexico. Then into my favourite Cafe La Boheme, where a sullen older man served me a bowl of very good lentil soup. Then took the bus to Prentiss Street, in Bernal Heights, the last place we lived. I had hoped to find Amanda, the strange but wonderful landlady (straight out of Tales Of The City), still there, but she had sold up and gone, according to the lovely man who lived there. Back on the bus, out to Holly Park, to meet up with great old friends from the Hard Rock, my fave radicals, who had produced tremendous books of Protest march banners – all of them wonderfully quirky and funny. We went over to an area called the Dog Patch to meet their kids, now 35 and 28, who were such fun, along with their sons girlfriend, her sister and mother – a big family pizza out. Back out for more tea and chat, endless chat, and eventual bed and a wonderful sleep.
In the morning, we had eggs from their hens (!) who scratch around the backyard, and more tea and chat. We took the dogs walking over Bernal Heights Park, where the view of the city was truly breathtaking, the whole vista bookended by the Golden Gate and the Bay Bridge. Back down to meet up with my next hosts, also Hard Rock graduates. They took me for a spendiferous tour of Lyon Street, huge huge mansions up high over the city, and then through the Presidio, under the Golden Gate Bridge past Baker Beach and Ocean Beach. There are no more adjectives that I can use to describe how beautiful it all was, and I’m so grateful to have been whisked away on this. We went shopping for groceries, which, so far, I’ve found quite a bit more expensive than Ireland – but then maybe everyone earns more here. Then back for heaps of tea and biscuits, and endless chat about past times. Then out we dashed with my friends’ husband, sister and mother to eat delicious Indian food in the Mission.
I was included in a Superbowl party today – a group of friends who know each other from years of playschool and school pickups got together to watch the Superbowl on a giant TV screen. The local team, the 49ers, were facing down the Kansas City Chiefs, and the whole of San Francisco were on tenterhooks, hoping for a win. A few early fireworks went off last night in anticipation of a win. We headed over with food for the start of the game at 3pm, prefaced by the national anthem, sung by Reba McEntire. In all my years here, I never saw an American football game, though I had seen it in passing. Sitting down to watch the highlight of the year with a group of enthusiasts was great fun. The game itself is all stops and starts, and has the remnants of rugby hidden within in. The ball gets handled a lot, and you have to throw it backwards, like rugby. There’s a sort of open scrum, and the ball gets thrown in, then all hell breaks loose as the defenders tackle their opposite number with gusto, so that there’s scraps going on all over the field, while the man with the ball is being pursued by a handfull heading up the field, as he tries to touch the ball down, like rugby, for six points (though they don’t use the term “scoring a try”), which the specific kicker can convert into an extra point by getting it over the H-shaped posts. There are other rules that I may not have followed, all very reminiscent of rugby, but these lads were wearing giant helmets (into which their coach spoke via earpieces), were hugely-built, and attacked each other like gladiators, often when it seemed to have nothing to do with the game. The action was utterly brutal, and I was thinking of the potential spinal injuries, the dislocated shouders, the broken bones, the long-term damage to their frames, the sheer bruising involved. The game is designed around television viewing, with breaks every 5 minutes or so for the players and to allow for advertising, and for all of us to have some delicious food. There were several ads showing unlikely people washing other people’s feet, with the byline “Jesus didn’t teach HATE, he washed feet”. Then back to the blistering action. Each of the four quarters are officially 15 minutes, but delays, injuries and advertising made the game a great deal longer. There was more than one cliffhanger, with the group of friends shouting support, disappointment or jubilation, and the 49ers lost to the Kansas boys by a hard-earned touch-down, with three minutes to go in extra time. The players were ragged by then, pushing themselves to extraordinary feats of daring, finishing up playing almost five hours of football. They may as well have been gladiators, the whole thing was incredibly violent. At the end of the game, indeed, we were all exhausted, and I had the surprise of winning the pool that we’d run – all throwing in a fiver. A great way to finish up my first day watching American football.
- From Bernal Heights Park, a view of a low-rise city
- A big screen, good company and great food for the Superbowl party
- Little Libraries for kids all over Holly Park, devoted to a young man shot by police
- Art installation in Golden Gate Park in the shape of a tree of lights
I always think January is going to be a quiet month, but actually it’s packed with really interesting gigs, people calling out of the blue, the aftermath of Christmas, dramatic weather events, and I added to it by planning a trip at the very end of the month. There were details to be remembered, people to contact, workmen to cajole and help, a house to be cleaned, a car to be cleaned, keys galore, heaps of correspondence.
I am returning to USA for the first time in 28 years, first to the west coast, then to the east coast. I travelled exceptionally light. I wore all my winter clothes (leaving a very cold Ireland) and packed one small backpack with lighter clothes, figuring there’s a charity shop on every US street corner, if I need anything. I worked hard to finish everything in my own house, all spick and span, a few days before my takeoff, and headed up to Dublin to my sister’s house to have a couple of long sleeps and nice walks and, as it happened, some lovely social time at a workshop making Brid Og’s – little fertility dolls, for Brigids Day, at my sister Brigid’s table. Having 48 hours of no pressure before a big flight is a great way to beat jetlag.
I flew with Aer Lingus, direct from Dublin to San Francisco. The last time I flew transatlantic, there was no US Immigration centre in Dublin Airport, and no Terminal 2. Firsts all round for me. I flew through security, and walked as far as I could get, access still not open completely, and had a nice cuppa tea. The lovely woman didn’t charge me for hot water,so I took out the last of my Irish change and tipped her. Some time later, she appeared at my table – she had left her counter/shop and come and found me to give me back my bank card, which I had left behind. Gratitude doesn’t really cover what I felt – I would have been out of my mind, and wouldn’t have even known where I left it.
Onward then to swing into US Immigration and Customs. All Very Serious. The man who questioned me was totally suspicious of me. Had I ever been in the US before? Why yes, I used to live here, had a Green Card. Alarm bells rang in his head. Did I have any food with me – well, only my lunch, salad and an apple…with that, I was marched through the big double doors, where a Customs Officer watched me throw out my salad and apple, and allowed me keep the bread and chocolate. The place was deliberately low light, three officers behind security desks, no natural light anywhere. I then had to wait til they were ready – maybe they were watching my body language. I got up from the rows of seats to have a look at a giant photo of the Statue of Liberty on the entrance wall. An officer appeared – Can you sit down please Ma’am – and I did as told. I was blocking the aisle, in case of emergency. A nice young Filipina officer appeared and explained that I had to fill in a form to formally rescind my Green Card, which I had assumed was long since dead. I think they were imagining that I might be bunking in to the USA to work. I did point out that I’m 70, and very happy with my own country, but they had to go through the motions. And people here work way beyond 70 anyhow.
Then, I was on my way. I’ve spent the last nearly-30 years flying Ryanair, and am well used to the cattle-prodding, not-enough-legroom, walking miles to the outermost point of the airport, arriving three hours busride away from your destination sort of experience that budget flying is, but it’s all short-hop, so you’d stand all the way if it made it any cheaper. Flying transatlantic with Aer Lingus (on a half-empty plane, TBH) was such a pleasure. I managed to get a double seat that had an aisle on one side, the window on the other, so plenty of room to stretch out and sleep; stewards that were so pleasant and helpful (and not trying to sell you anything); glasses of water offered hourly; a screen for movies/tv/radio; food that was good, but not memorable. The flight was absolute pleasure. My dear pal Cathy met me at the airport, and we sped across highway 280, which goes through San Francisco, me hanging out the window looking at the typical SF housing, hills, the Bay glimpsed here and there, then over the Golden Gate Bridge, which stops you in your tracks every time, and on to the cozy environs of Mill Valley.
Well, I knew there was Weather coming here – San Francisco does get rain in February. I arrived to lovely sunshine on Friday, but by Saturday night, it was bucketing down. Sunday was wet wet wet, but a dryish patch had me out the door with pal Denise to walk her dog. The rain and wind returned with fresh gusto – we may as well have turned the garden hose on ourselves – we were soaked. Thunder and lightening followed, and more rain next day. The news of floods and fallen trees and power cuts came in, but our area remained in good shape. The upside was sitting by the fire endlessly talking with my lovely hosts, catching up on the last couple of years since we met, getting out for the odd walk/drive when the rain stopped. The area has been developed so much that I can barely find my way around, like Rip Van Winkle returned to find a changed world, albeit a very beautiful California.
Below: The view from my window after the rainstorm. Me, travelling light, very light.
EVERYDAY ART BERLIN.
Home from my trip, it takes a few days (at this stage, weeks!) to adjust to Irish weather and the Irish countryside. My last stop, Berlin, is a city full of art, graffiti, innovation on all sorts of levels, and the winter scene here at home looks bleak, wet, soggy, with mountains and water as art.
EVERYDAY NATURE BALLYKNOCK.
Although Berlin residents (and all residents everywhere I went) complain bitterly about the winter weather, there is virtually no wind compared to Ireland, hence the rain falls down in a straight line and your umbrella protects you completely. The thick fog we encountered in Venice didn’t seem to soak you, whereas the “soft” rain I came home to had my coat sopping wet in minutes. However, our rain is a blessing, I keep reminding myself, as I need it for well-water, and indeed the garden, which is in need of care.
BORRIS HOUSE WOODS.
Figuring out how far my trip took me, I travelled about 5,100 Km overland, which is roughly the length of a trip from Dublin to New York. Adding in my airmiles, I did a total of 9,340 Km, which is more like Dublin to Shanghai. I travelled exceptionally lightly, one warm coat (doubled as bedding), one pair of boots, two changes of clothes, two sets of thermals, and did washing all along the way. My laptop froze at the beginning of my trip, (I had planned to write the blog on it) which meant I had to carry it all the way but couldn’t use it. Instead, I learned to write the blog with one finger on the phone, a tremendous challenge that I really relish having overcome!
EVERYDAY GRAFFITI BERLIN.
I am so grateful to all the people who had me to stay, people who I’m very fond of, who I may not get the opportunity to see again for a while. I generally stayed 2-3 nights, but everything was flexible, and I found that people really enjoyed having a winter guest, at a time of year when people don’t visit, so although i hadn’t expected it, I also brought a bit of welcome “devartion” (as my dad might say in Dublinese) in the dullness of their winter. Someone said to me “What if all those people come and visit you?” I’d love it! “mi casa es tu casa”. I had the luxury of being a “flaneur” (or flaneuse if you like), which my dictionary defines as “a man/woman who saunters around observing society”. That won’t change – at every opportunity, I’ll indulge in coffee at 11 with a bit of people-watching.
CAFE ON KARL MARX STRASSE.
Thanks especially to all of you who followed my travels, and enjoyed it along with me. Spring is on its way, that means lots of outdoor work, but I’ll be back again with more travels next winter.
Meanwhile, I need to fall in love with my own place again, the beauty of home, the promise of Spring at my workplace, the quirky bits of Dublin, the drama of the west awakening.
ABOVE:
SPRING AT JERPOINT.
HOME SWEET HOME.
INIS MOR, ARAN ISLANDS.
MY FAVOURITE CAFE, SIMONS PLACE.
QUIRKY DUBLIN: PIANO PROVIDED IN CONNOLLY STATION FOR ALL TO PLAY.
Berlin Erasmus 