The day I had been anticipating finally came. A mere 15 miles on the bike and Justin and I would be in Corte Madera, the town just north of San Francisco where my cousins lived. Another ten miles and we would be crossing the Golden Gate bridge.
It all felt oddly anti-climactic. When I first started my trip I had daydreamed about seeing the look on my cousins’ faces as I rolled up to their house on my fully loaded bike, pulled off my shades and greeted them with a casual glance, as though to say “Yeah, I just biked from my house to yours. No big deal.” I guess I felt I had something to prove. But that feeling, and its accompanying fantasy, had long since disappeared. While never the focus of my trip, my destination seemed to matter less and less the more I rode. By the time I was on the cusp of arriving, it felt like just another day.
I phoned my cousin David in the morning to let him know that I would be there that afternoon. He informed me that he and his wife Denise would be out until 5pm, killing whatever remained of my ‘impressive arrival’ fantasy. Since nobody was home anyways, I decided to head directly into the city with Justin and take the ferry back to Corte later that evening. I would not, after all, feel that I had truly made it until I crossed the Golden Gate bridge.
There were a lot of twists and turns on the way into the city. Justin and I were thus forced to stop every 10 minutes to pull out the guidebook and memorize as many lines of directions as we could before forgetting the names of streets, or which way we were supposed to turn. Normally I would not have minded all of the stopping and starting, but the anticipation of being so close to the finish line made it difficult to go slow.
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| I made it! |
About a mile from the bridge, we ran into a cyclist Justin had befriended earlier on in Oregon. He was somewhat of a character, and went on at length about his experiences in the city thus far while I mustered up every ounce of patience I owned to prevent myself from sprinting onwards. Sensing and sharing my edginess, Justin tried to rap things up with his friend, who thankfully obliged. One final push up a hill and we were in the parking lot looking out over the iconic suspension bridge leading into San Francisco.
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| The Presidio |
Despite my feelings of normalcy about the day, this was undoubtedly a milestone. Even the blustering wind and spitting rain could not ruin the moment. I pestered Justin to participate in several photo ops as we rode along the massive red towers with our hair blowing everywhere and the city waiting for us on the other side of the water (in all fairness I did warn him that there would be a photo shoot when we got there…and despite his nonchalance he asked me to send the pictures to him later!) And then we just rode. I watched the host of cyclists passing us along the bike and pedestrian path, and wondered what it would be like to ride over this bridge every day. It’s funny how travel can create such special meaning in places. Though perhaps the significance of a regular landmark in one’s life is ultimately deeper.
On the other side of the bridge, our excitement was replaced with confusion as we promptly realized that we had no idea where we were going. After asking several other equally lost tourists, we followed the bike path leading through the Presidio along the waterfront. Unfortunately, while a celebratory beer was definitely in order, there wasn’t really time. Justin had plans to meet the friend he was staying with for dinner, and I wanted to catch the ferry back to my cousins’ place before it got too late. The rest of the afternoon was stressful for both of us. Justin’s phone died out of the blue, leaving him communicatively stranded upon arrival in the big city. The journey back to my cousins seemed simple, but turned out to be anything but. The first challenge was to find the terminal for the Larkspur ferry, which David had told me to take. It seemed obvious enough on google maps, but as I rolled through the swarms of people along the embarcadero, passing pier after pier, I had no idea what boat launched from where. Unfortunately neither did any of the dozen or so people whom I stopped to ask, most of whom had never even heard of Larkspur.
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| Ferry building |
I finally found my departure point at the ferry building and boarded the boat only to have the woman in charge command me to take my bike upstairs – kind of tricky given that I could barely lift it. I tried to explain that I was physically incapable of doing so, and that there was plenty of room for the bike on the main level. She responded by insisting, via a mixture of gestures and broken English, that I unload the bike completely in order to get it up the stairs, or disembark the vessel. As I stood there at a loss and visibly flustered, a middle-aged man thrust a plastic glass of beer in my hand, instructing me to hold his drink while he lifted my bike up the stairs. Whew! Crisis averted.
The saga continued on the other side of the bay. Following the directions I had written down earlier in the day, I got about 50m down the road from the ferry terminal before hitting an eight lane freeway which did not seem very bike friendly. There was a small sidewalk alongside the freeway, but I had no idea how long it was or whether it was heading in the right direction. At a loss once again, I ran into another friendly stranger who was eager to help. We both looked at my directions together, and then he suggested that I call his girlfriend who lived just around the corner, and had an impeccable sense of direction. I figured it would be simpler to simply ring up my cousin, who informed me that I was in fact on the right track, and tried to explain the way to his house. My friend continued along the path with me anyways, and we soon ran into his girlfriend, along with another elderly woman who was walking by. I had flashbacks of getting directions in India, as all three of them huddled together to discuss the best route to take as though pondering an important political problem.
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| The Castro |
Although I was pretty sure of the way by the time I left them, the roads were confusing
and I had to stop once more to make sure I was on the right track. Finally I figured out where I was. As I stopped into the local grocery store to pick up a bottle of wine, I got a call from David, who was certain that I was lost. “Nope I know exactly where I am. Be there in 10 minutes.” I assured him proudly. A few minutes later, I was at the house. Only it wasn’t my cousins’ house anymore. They had moved three years ago, the woman who answered the door told me. I had the wrong address! So much for my smoothe entrance.
After yet another phone call to David, I managed to find the right place, which was thankfully just around the corner from where I was. David and Denise gave me a warm welcome, treating me to a delicious Japanese dinner and lending me clothes while I threw all of mine in the wash. A hot shower and soft bed never felt so good.
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| Kiwi pears! |
Throughout my trip, everybody told me that I would love San Francisco. They were right. I tend to find large urban areas stressful, but there was something about the rows of pastel-coloured houses, hilltop vistas and palm-tree lined waterfront that made this city feel lighter, as though it had room to breathe. This was complimented by a truly impressive array of fresh, light and flavourful food. Take it from a girl who knows – in addition to sampling just about every type of Asian cuisine à table, I happily grazed my way through farmer’s markets and grocery delis, delighting my senses with to-die for dips and previously unheard of fruit hybrids such as the kiwi-pear. There was nothing less than delicious to be found. If you want to eat local and eat well, this is the place to be.
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| Corona Heights |
Given all this feel-good food, I suppose it comes as no surprise that the people of San Francisco were just a wee bit friendlier than the folk one meets on the streets of Vancouver, Toronto or New York. Amazingly, the kindness that had been extended to me on that first day of navigating through the city carried on throughout my entire stay.
Initially I had planned to spend a few of my remaining trip days biking just a little further south to visit some of the wonderful seaside towns I had heard about, and perhaps even catch a glimpse of the beautiful Big Sur. I soon realized, however, that ten days was precious little time even just to explore the city. So I decided to stay put, telling myself that I would simply have to come back for the rest.
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| Best yoga tree ever! |
With the exception of my weekend with Barbara, nights brought me back to the peaceful family life in Corte Madera, where I was grateful for the chance to get to know my cousins beyond the backdrop of a family wedding or funeral. I also took a few days off from the city to bike around the gorgeous Marin headlands, and get some quality play time in with David and Denise’s adorable little ones, Hannah and Jay.
Much as I was enjoying my city adventures, I must admit that all of the texting and commuting began to get the better of me. It all fell apart two days before the end of my tirp. First, I decided it would be a good idea to bike across the city from the ferry building to Golden Gate park, in the rain. I was able to avoid all the steep hills by following a bike route called “the wiggle,” but did not quite manage to ride between the raindrops, which were quickly increasing in force and number. Now soaking wet, I met Justin and proceeded to get drunk. Granted I only had two beers, but I am a lightweight, and the Korean tofu soup I had for dinner was not pulling its weight in the alcohol absorption department.
Then I left my bike on a city bus. If any of you have ever done this - and it is easy to do - you know that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach when you realize that something is missing. Something important. Oh shit. It only took me five minutes to apprehend this, at which point I turned in my tracks. The first instinct when you forget something is to go back for it. Sound logic, but not really applicable in this case, I soon realized.
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| Drool |
Now, I understand that people have their reasons for stealing fancy electronics, but in my opinion it is just plain mean to steal a person’s camera. The gadget is obviously replaceable, but the memories frozen in time aren’t :( Luckily I had most of my pictures from California saved on my cousins’ computer. And, although the Washington and Oregon pictures were gone, I had at least posted some of the best ones on my blog already. In the end I told myself that it was a lesson in letting go. My trip was amazing and the memories were with me – the images of it were just a shiny surface that didn’t ultimately matter.
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| the beats used to hang out at this bookstore in North Beach! |
The next morning I headed back into the city to reclaim my vehicle. Upon arrival in the office, I was greeted by two very friendly women, who chatted with me for awhile about my trip. When I explained the events of the previous evening, one of them sagely advised me that I probably had too much on my mind. Ain’t that the truth. Of course, in true Dana fashion I couldn’t just take my bike back and leave, once and for all. I had to forget something else while I was there. Sitting at the bagel shop down the street, I soon discovered that my city map was missing. I considered doing without but I really did need it to find my way around, and compared to spending another $8 to buy a new map, the shame of returning to the depot seemed like the better bargain. The women were expecting me. I shrugged and laughed. “Girl, it’s time to go home.” Amen to that.
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| Chinatown |
Rose ended up having family business to attend to, so I had the day free in the city. After hunting for my camera to no avail, I decided to take advantage of the sunshine to finally see some of Golden Gate park. As I wandered through the fantastic conservatory of flowers, I kept wanting to pull out my camera for a picture. At the same time, I began to realize that it was nice to have an excuse not to do that – to fully immerse myself in my surroundings and enjoy, without the underlying voice nagging me to document. Sometimes you just have to break off.
Justin met me in the park that afternoon. We spent the rest of the day together, and then I said goodbye to him and the city, heading back to Corte Madera for my final day before flying home. 
It all happened so quickly. I know I have come a long, long way, and yet that seed I planted before ever setting wheels on the road grew so very gradually as to be almost imperceptible, sort of like a long mountain climb, if you will permit me to shamelessly mix metaphors. And now, suddenly, I find myself sitting in Southern Ontario under the shade of this beautiful autumnal tree, feeling like a completely different person than I was two months ago. A more confident, patient and joyful person, full of excitement for the future.
That future, of course, is filled with more biking adventures, the most immediate of which is coming up in less than two weeks! As some of you already know, I will be heading to Thailand on November 11 to meet up with my good friend Rachelle for a bike tour around Southeast Asia. Originally we had planned to backpack, but I am a cycling addict now, and Rachelle is a good sport! Some of you have asked if I will continue to blog on this tour. While I really do enjoy sharing my adventures with you via the written word, and I appreciate all the support you have given me in this endeavour, I’d like to take the opportunity on this trip to break off for a little while. I have a feeling some of the cultures we will encounter have their own sense of time, not to mention that Rachelle and I will likely be too busy eating and beaching to do much writing home. You’ll just have to hear about it from me live, when you come visit me next year on Vancouver Island :)
Thank you so much for journeying along with me.
Gratefully,
Dana
P.S. Stay tuned for a few more pictures that I seemed to have left behind on my cousins' computer!
