15 - Finding Everything but Heather in San Francisco

             
              October 4, 1978. My first time visiting San Francisco in, my first drive over the magnificent Golden Gate bridge, my first glimpse of the skyline through the fog -- and this was the first impression in my journal: “Drove into Frisco. Couldn’t find Heather.”

              Who the hell was Heather?! This was my first – and last – mention of her. I have no independent memory of even knowing a Heather back then, yet that was my first note after getting into the city. Where was I expecting to find her? Waving cheerily from the “Welcome to San Francisco” sign? Masquerading as a toll taker?

              Heather-less, Bruce and I parked and were walking around aimlessly, when a couple approached us outside a theatre and “gave us tickets to see the see the second act of ‘Bubbling Brown Sugar.’ It was a jivey musical, perfect length, 45 minutes.” 

              After the musical, “Walked around, ate like pigs, bought paper, played Fascination [sort of like skee-ball]. Lost money. Got map and stood on street corner, looking lost, when two beautiful girls botched a parallel parking job in their Datsun. We talked for a while, became infatuated, and watched them disappear into the YWCA.” (Oh hell, I was 21. Insert somewhat embarrassed, cheesy-faced emoji.)

              From there, Bruce and I “Drank at White Horse Bar, saw man smash windows at an art gallery. 'He’s even more punk than us!’ remarked a punkette dancer.” 

              Soon after, we “gave it up, got dressed and went to a deserted disco.” By “got dressed,” I meant that we went back to our hostel and put on our disco clothes. Or at least I did; I don’t recall any moose sweaters from Saturday Night Fever.          

              Then we “Walked around and ran into the two girls, whose names were Nancy and Mary. We went to a bar, then a restaurant, making jokes and having fun. (Pam Pam: we never close.) [Reader: if you can think of why that’s funny, email me.] From there, we walked them back to their car, and “… they gave us pampas grass, and took our pictures."

“We arranged to meet early morning for sightseeing. W and I returned to our car and a flat tire. I changed it in my suit. Drove to the Y and slept, awoke at 7:30, met Nancy and Mary, took a cool trolley to the wharf. Walked around. Saw Alcatraz and had a street lunch.”

              

             “They split from us to buy wicker and we ate more lunch, saw street music, jugglers, a magician, drank Irish coffee. Walked up Lombard to meet them.”

"The crookedest street in the world"

"Mary fell off the trolley but was OK."

             

              “We walked towards Coit tower, but W and I saw some young kids playing softball in a concrete park and we took turns hitting to them for 1/2 hour. They were phenomenal fielders. Met N & M at Coit Tower. They had wine, we drank, city view, wind, wine, and smiles. Kissed goodbye and split, swapping addresses. May meet us in Frisco.”

              

              But we didn’t. That was the last we saw or heard of Nancy or Mary, though later my journal mentioned writing at least one letter. So if anyone knows these women today - possibly in the possession of wicker or pampas grass - please let me know:
             

              After taking leave from Nancy and Mary, “W and I walked around ‘Frisco, weird shops, porno, lots of cool people, etc. Got to car, drove back to Market St. for more Fascination and left San Francisco …”
              I did manage to get back to San Francisco in 1984, for a fun time with some Ann Arbor friends who had recently moved to Haight-Ashbury. But my next visit was not until 2018. And just as 1978 started on a rough note by my inability to locate Heather, 2018 also began ominously, due to my complete lack of planning (other than to watch the Michigan football game with friends in the morning).

              As a rule, I don’t make advance lodging reservations, to maintain my spontaneity on the road, as Bruce and I did in 1978. This was not such a good idea in 2018 San Francisco. I drove across the bridge and pulled over, starting the process of looking for a place to stay by searching on my phone. It was already after midnight. I tried the Golden Gate Campground, hostels, and the handful of hotels that cost less than my mortgage payment. No luck. So I drove back over the bridge to Sausalito. But hotels were expensive there too, and considering all I needed to do was crash a few hours, I refused on principle to shell out big bucks.

              So I looked for a place to simply pull over and sleep in the car. I found a residential street, behind a large mall, on a hill overlooking the highway, in what I hoped was a reasonably respectable neighborhood. I leaned the seat back and slept for a few hours, being awaken by two joggers rushing past around 6:30. I groggily went to a nearby gym - with floors inexplicably tilted like the Cosmos - and struggled coffee-less through a workout. I showered there, then drove back into the city to meet my friends for the Michigan game.

              I got my coffee, at Martin and Lauren’s (she used to work for our firm and is now a lawyer in SF; he's a consultant). In fact I had three coffees and two Bloody Marys with Martin’s excellent crepes, while watching a 9 AM football game. We then went on a long walk. 

              We started in the Haight. I took them to the Persian Aub Zam-Zam, an outlier in this otherwise funky neighborhood.

This is an optical illusion, like the Cosmos. I am taller than Lauren.

Although Bruce and I did not visit here, my friends in 1984 brought me for my first martini. It’s dominated by a semicircular bar and an exotic mural, depicting a prince and princess from a Persian fairy tale, bathed in red lighting.

For decades it was manned by Bruno Mooshei, who died in 2000. From his obituary:

              A little bit of San Francisco history has passed away with the death of Bruno Mooshei, for almost 50 years the proprietor of the Persian Aub Zam Zam, a Haight Street watering hole immortalized by Chronicle columnist Herb Caen as the Holy Shrine of the Dry Martini. … Mr. Mooshei mixed Boord’s gin and Boissiere vermouth – in a ratio, he said, of 1000-1 – and served ice cold in 3-ounce glasses, the same ones his father used when he opened the Zam Zam in 1941. Equally legendary was Mr. Mooshei’s cantankerous personality. If he didn’t like the looks or attitude of a potential patron, he would brusquely send the person away. “Bruno always served people if they did three basic things: come sit at a stool, put your money on the bar and give him your order," a longtime patron said. "But people that came in, fooled around, went to the bathroom, laughed with their friends, said ‘what would you recommend?' when he asked for their order – to them, he’d say, ‘I recommend the corner bar.’” [SFGate.com, 12/3/00]

              When I complimented Bruno in 1984 on such a fine drink, he nodded and told me, “The martini, my friend, is the Rolls-Royce of drinks.” They still serve a mighty fine version in 2018.

              Lauren, Martin and I couldn’t score tickets to Alcatraz, so from the Zam Zam, we went to the venerable Japanese Tea Garden, which I’d also visited previously.             

              On the way, I snuck a photo of the fearsome Segway gang:
             

              I parted with Lauren and Martin, and drove the hills to Coit Tower. I arrived precisely at 6:01 PM and was informed that they had just closed. I exclaimed, “But I drove across the country for this!” (sorta true). She took pity and let me in. An elevator took me up most of the 210 feet and I climbed two flights to the top, for the astonishing 360° vistas.

              

              It gave me chills to return to that timeless landmark.

              

              One Dungeness crab dinner later, I was about to take my leave from San Francisco when I decided to see if the White Horse Tavern on Union Square, that Bruce and I visited in 1978, was still open. It was, and I stopped in to this replica of an English Pub. I wondered whether it had some interesting history that compelled us to visit back then (not to be confused with the famous White Horse Bar across the bay in Oakland, billed as the oldest continuously operating gay bar in the U.S.). I sat down and ordered a Guinness and set to find out.

              There was a young woman working away at the table next to me, and I asked her if she knew anything about the place’s history. She was as clueless as I. When I asked to borrow a pen for my journal, she handed me one that read “Ann Arbor.” Turned out she was a native, and given her unique sense of style, I shouldn't have been surprised. She once had the same voice coach as my daughter! I love coincidences like that, and enjoyed chatting with her. 

Traveling alone, I can go through long stretches without having any conversations, other than the ones that go, “Black coffee, please.” “Room for cream?” (Insert head slap emoji). It was much easier for two young guys to meet people than it is for one, um … more “seasoned” traveler. It is especially frustrating running into resistance even from folks that I am able to track down from 1978, who (unlike Travis and Becky) don’t seem real interested in catching up with someone they don’t remember – just for the sake of some guy’s blog. Frankly, who can blame them?

On the other hand, there is value in having uncluttered time to think, reflect, and write. Life can become so filled with “doing,” and checking off lists, that it leaves little time for living. Driving by a guy mowing his expansive lawn, it struck me that everything we buy and possess is a tradeoff of not only our money, but our time. Almost everyone who has gone through the possessions of a deceased parent has wondered, “why did he keep this stuff?” To my kids: I pledge I will not do this to you. I will try to be like Gandhi, who died with less than ten possessions. Oh, plus my cell phone, laptop, car, house, lawnmower, edger, college papers, monkey collection, and jarful of pistachios without cracks.

Next:

L.A. is a great big freeway, put a hundred down and buy a car

              In a week, maybe two, they’ll make you a star

Weeks turn into years, how quick they pass

And all the stars, that never were, are parking cars and pumping gas

(“Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” courtesy Burt Bacharach and Dionne Warwick)