Day 0: Chico>SF
“We’re really not in Kansas anymore!” my mother-in-law exclaimed as we stepped out onto the relatively calm and quiet sidewalk. The ever present self driving Waymo’s, electric bikes, and LGBT paraphernalia do give San Francisco a unique feel that is probably quite far removed from Kansas, or anywhere that I’m familiar with at least.
My first breath of air in this city gave me a feeling of belonging and comfort. The weather, air, food, clothing, fills me with a so-far unique to California sense of being at ease, as if I was meant to be here. Even on the busiest streets at rush hour, I believe (though it may not be true) that I am more likely to hear bird song than honking horns. Perception is 9/10’s of reality.
I was shocked by the low density of homeless, the cleanliness of the streets, and the most outstanding weather. It seems to me that my relatively small hometown has significantly higher HPSB (homeless per square block) than the famously filthy homeless hub of America. Though of course some districts of the city have more problems than others, it is clear in my mind that it is far superior to most other cities I have touristed. We even easily found free street parking (non existent in the east in my experience).
We felt safe enough to leave our bags, containing our entire lives for the next 8 months, in the car. After stopping at a Peak Design storefront (if you’re reading this please sponsor me), some shopping, and picking up a massive loaf of Tartines famous sourdough, we were alarmed to return to the car to find a homeless man bent over against the driver side door. We immediately suspected we had happened to stumble upon a would be thief in the act. As I approached, ready to defend the vehicle - and our bags - we indicated it was our car, and that we’d like to get in. The man looked up, gave us an “oh shit, my bad man” look, finished smoking from his crack pipe, then promptly and politely departed. While my infantile notions about the homeless population were somewhat shattered, I did ponder that the poor man was quite nice for a crack fiend.
For drinks we went to San Francisco’s famous “Redwood Room”. Even more eye watering than the $25 price tag on the cocktails was the decadent red paneling encompassing the entire room. Said to be sourced from a singular redwood tree that was over 2000 years old, the walls and pillars of the Redwood Room tower over you like their namesake trees. The wood from Sequoia Sempervirens is notoriously soft and difficult to work. Yet the pillars are carved marvelously, and are excellently maintained for having been in a bar for over 100 years. My brain attempted to rationalize that here the tree would be “immortalized”, “more appreciated”, and that It may have fallen on its own before being harvested. Soon however, I learned the bar’s original countertop, a massive slab of old growth redwood, had been recently discarded for a more modern stone. I can’t help but feel I would have appreciated the tree more as it was in nature, and the beauty of the room is a stark reminder of the ~95% of old growth coastal redwood forest that was logged, which cannot be replaced for many lifetimes. That fact seemed to hover throughout the room, like the morning dew in the Humboldt Redwoods….our cocktails were just okay.
Our oversized jet takes off at what feels like a nerve wracking 45 degree angle. As we climb I look out the window to see the well watered hills of San Francisco be replaced by the endless possibility of the Pacific, stretching to the horizon. We wave goodbye to rolling hills and coastal ranges, our Central Valley, and well beyond sight, but not thought, the Sierra’s, home, and everything we are familiar with.
We are headed towards distant lands and waters in search of adventure, experience, and Mother Earths beauty. Yet I’m left with the somewhat bittersweet knowledge that one of the most spectacular places on earth is still eagerly awaiting our more permanent return. I’ve drunk barely a drop from its well.