Three days in San Francisco
BY VICKI LOVERN
The farthest I’ve ever traveled was to San Francisco in 2007. My daughter, Tina, “had” to attend a physician assistant conference in Napa Valley and asked me to go with her.
“You always said you wanted to see California,” she told me when at first I seemed hesitant. I had only flown once before – to Key Largo – and though that turned into a wonderful experience, I was still not at the point of fearless enthusiasm at the thought of flying cross-country.
“Once,” I told her. “I said I wanted to go to California ONE time.”
Nevertheless, on April 26, 2007, my baby girl and I were off on a six-hour flight to the star-ridden, sun-soaked, foreign territory of the Golden State. The expansive western terrain was unlike anything I was accustomed to – with sprawling vistas and picturesque hillsides complete with jagged cliffs overlooking the tranquil Pacific Ocean and breezy San Francisco Bay.
The roller coaster roads winding up and down throughout the city were enormously fun and certainly had not been exaggerated in all the movie chase scenes I had seen. At one point, we were at the very top of one of those hilly roads. It really felt like we were on top of a roller coaster getting ready to fly straight down into the beautiful bay below us. It was at once both exciting and a bit scary too. All the trolley cars bustling with activity were continuous and delightful and just added to the charm of the city. We didn’t actually know where we were going or how to get there, but my ever-adventurous and never-easily-deterred daughter knew that if we just kept heading towards the bay, we couldn’t go too far astray.
So I got to see some “Streets of San Francisco,” including China Town and the infamous Haight-Ashbury district, where musicians like Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead congregated and hippies and flower children from all walks of life would gather together to spread love and peace. Not all were spreading Beach Boys “Good Vibrations,” however, as Charlie Manson’s followers also chose this neighborhood to plea the innocence of their notorious leader.
Then, almost before we knew it, we were there at the magical Pier 39 with the iconic golden red, golden glow of the Golden Gate Bridge standing majestically and magnificently right in front of us, serving as an exquisite centerpiece for the entire city.
Pier 39 was as fabulous as I thought it would be. It was a veritable cornucopia of sights, sounds and scents. Tina fell completely in love with the hundreds of chubby, whiskery, adorable sea lions sunning themselves on all the docks surrounding the pier, giving the song “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” a whole new meaning.
And though I thought the little fellows were pretty cute, I, myself, kinda preferred the even cuter fellow who helped me light my cigarette in the gusty bay breeze. Tina and I had just finished eating lunch at one of the many fine cafes there. I had stepped outside to grab a quick smoke (yes, I know, nasty, nasty habit that thankfully, I eventually was able to kick). She had stayed inside to pay the bill when she saw the young man approach me. He inquired if I had a light. I, of course, gave him my lighter and jokingly remarked, “Sure. Good luck on getting it lit, though.” It had become so windy that my many attempts to light my cig had proven futile.
“Let me show you how to light it,” he gestured for me to pull my jacket up over my head to shelter the flame from the wind. As I did as directed, I sat my purse down on the pavement beside me, and with my jacket raised up over our lowered heads, we lit our cigarettes successfully. We thanked each other and smiled at each other in unison. He waved goodbye just as my daughter came rushing out of the restaurant, clearly upset with me.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “You’re not supposed to talk to strangers, especially when you’re in an unfamiliar place.”
We often joke that she can’t leave me alone for a second without someone striking up a conversation with me.
“You’re just too approachable,” she would tell me. Though, in this case, she was right. I certainly couldn’t disagree with her. It could have been dangerous.
“And never, NEVER, leave your purse unattended like that! He could have had an accomplice waiting to snatch it while he distracted you.”
I thought it was sweet that she was worried that her mom was about to get mugged.
We also got to see the famous Alcatraz—from afar, that is. We didn’t have time to take the ferry out to explore it. But it was still a pretty cool sight. Pier 39 had no shortage of cool sights and was kind of magical with all kinds of different people. We saw everything from jazz players to break dancers to “space” men lined up and down the pier and ate the best clam chowder that I have ever tasted. I have to agree with Tina, though: those cute, little whiskered sunbathers stole the show.
The next day, our first stop was the V. Sattui Winery and Italian Deli. It was a simply stunning, family-owned stone winery and cellars. Reminiscent of those built centuries ago, V. Sattui featured thick, hand-hewn stone walls, heavy rustic timbers, exquisitely chiseled archways and deep underground caves and cellars. We picnicked there in a tree-shaded grove surrounded by decades-old oaks adjacent to the stone winery and vineyard.
Our next stop was in Calistoga at California’s splendid Old Faithful. The spectacular geyser is surrounded by thick bamboo and plumed pampas grass with Mount St. Helena and the craggy Palisades as silent backdrops. Uprising steam and bubbling hot water announce the imminent eruption of the geyser as Old Faithful throws a tower of thousands of gallons of hot water skyward for about three to four minutes before receding. Repeat performances average 40 minutes apart, day and night, year after year. Hence the name – Old Faithful.
After our Old Faithful adventure, we visited the completely enchanting Chateau Montelena. This unique and lovely winery was the subject of the movie “Judgement of Paris” – about how it beat all the French wineries in 1976 and helped to put Napa on the map for being renowned for producing premium quality wines.
As amazing as all of our experiences had been, however, nothing could have prepared us for what came next. Tina had booked us an appointment at the Indian Springs Spa for a massage, a mud bath and a swim in the warm mineral springs pool. We had our massages first – then we were ready for the mud bath – or so we thought. Hindsight being 20/20 and all – we were both fairly blindsided on what came next.
Right off the bat, no small talk or pleasantries, they asked us to take off all our clothes and get into the mud-filled tubs. It was one of the funniest and, of course, most awkward moments that we had experienced together. After we had stripped down naked as the day we were born, we climbed into our respective tubs. The mud was hot and heavy but despite its thickness, we kept floating up. It was difficult to even keep covered with the mud. The lady tried to explain why this was happening as she poured more and more buckets of hot mud upon us.
She said the mud was a combination of volcanic ash, peat and mineral water, which caused your body to be completely suspended in the mixture. I felt like I was being buried in quicksand, except I kept floating to the top. Finally, after she had filled the tubs up to the rim with the mud, we eventually stayed covered. I had been laughing nervously pretty much throughout these 15 minutes of strange awkwardness, but then suddenly, the claustrophobia began to take hold. Although we had an almost weightless, gravity-defying floating feeling, the heavy hotness crept steadily beneath our chins – precariously close to our mouths and noses. My chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it.
I glanced over at my baby and she didn’t seem to be enjoying this supposedly muddy bliss any more than I was. Like Chevy Chase looking at the Grand Canyon in “Vacation,” I was ready to get out of this particular Dodge. I didn’t even have to ask Tina, as she was already climbing out of her tub. We both couldn’t get out of there fast enough and into the showers. Lastly, we took a dip in the mineral spring pool, which was a refreshing way to end the day. Perfect massage, last mud bath.
The next day we visited the magnificent Domaine Carnerous, which I believe was ultimately our favorite vineyard. The winery itself looked like a mansion – regal and elegant – with a gorgeous and generous wrap-around concrete balcony from which you could see all the spectacular angles of the luscious vineyard, sprinkled with charming little parasol-tasting tables throughout. The luscious countryside was home to row after row of juicy grape vines just waiting to be harvested.
After a wonderful three days packed full of lifelong memories, it was time to make the long trek back home. As we were going through security at the airport, my purse caused an alarm to sound. “Step back,” the guard sternly demanded. Obeying immediately, I did as instructed while another guard opened my purse and rummaged through it, eventually retrieving and pulling out the culprit for all to witness.
It was my cigarette lighter that I had forgotten to discard. I nervously blurted out the first thing that came to mind and the last thing one should say in an airport: “It’s not like I have a bomb in my purse or anything. It’s just a lighter!” I think I even did my nervous laugh again.
Well, I don’t think I have to tell you the look my baby girl gave me on that little exchange. After I was deemed to be okay—at least threat-wise (hard to say what they thought of me mentally, though I think we can all agree it was not particularly positive)—I was “cleared” to pass through and board the plane.
The last words I heard in San Francisco: “Mom—never, NEVER, say the word bomb in an airport.”
And I never, ever have since.