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Date: Tuesday August 12 2008

Jakob initially eschewed the little league route two years ago in favor of learning golf. I balked at first. I had played golf about twice in my life. And you can’t just go hit some balls at the park like a game of catch. Also, it was expensive. But Jakob insisted and promised to keep up with it. He did keep up with it, along with baseball, soccer and tennis. So here we were playing ‘bad golf’ fast – enjoying the morning air and the occasional correctly hit shot.There were no ocean views, but its presence was hardly kept a secret. There was heavy ozone in the air, produced from the waves smashing the shore, the white foam releasing oxygen. Dampness invaded everything. And a wind with a distinctive maritime flair blew in with a chill and just a smidgen scent of salt. I could close my eyes and feel the ocean all around. The holes were long but had multiple tees, and by the sixth, we realized we needed the ones closest to the hole.

At the end of the round, we chanced upon Bruce Olson, who runs the course.  We mentioned traveling to New Zealand in the evening. His eyes got wide, and he smiled.  Information burst forth from him like a volcano. I told him our plan was to not rent a car and stay in Auckland all three days. He told me to skip that plan. Auckland is nice, and you should see it he said, but if you go to New Zealand and don’t see the countryside, you’d miss some of the most spectacular scenery on Earth. He advised me to cancel a night at the Auckland hotel, rent a car, head north towards Whangaparaoa peninsula, stop at an information center and wing it. I’d be traveling halfway around the world, and this guy had just advised me to cancel my plans in favor of chance.

“I don’t know,” Jaime kindly said after hearing Bruce’s pitch back at the hotel. She is an event planner and makes a living from having plans, backup plans and backup plans for backup plans. That is not to say she is not adventurous (which she is), just more cautious than I, especially in foreign countries (usually a smart move).

We returned the rental car, checked out of the hotel, stored our luggage and headed to the nearest cable car. Today was Alcatraz day. (Note: we discovered a nice rental car tactic. Rent a car from an airport and return it to the city center when you are done if the city has adequate public transportation to get you back to the airport. In San Francisco, we rented a car to travel to Napa and Muir Woods, but were done with it now. The extra day of usage and parking would’ve far exceeded the $5 per person train charge to the airport. There is usually no charge for this tactic and saves money on parking and daily rates.)

The cable cars of San Francisco are one of the coolest museums on the planet on top of being a terribly inefficient way of getting around. Hordes of tourists clog the stops and can make waiting for one interminable. The routes are limited and fairly slow as well. But everything is original and authentic and stepping on a cable car is stepping back in time. We got fairly lucky and were traveling somewhat off-peak. Still, there was no Rice-A-Roni moment this trip. Along with 1,000 other people, we were packed in the back far away from the quintessential hanging off the railing.

As we move further into the digital world, nothing could be more analog than the cable car. A steel tether runs underneath the streets at a constant 9 1/2 miles per hour. A metal “claw” grabs onto it, and the cable car is thrust forward. This is done by a series of levers the pullman swings back and forth. Physical labor indeed. The sounds of the clanging and the metal and the levers and the ding ding take you way back – as if I know what the 1920s sounded like. It is an ethereal experience. Just give yourself a lot of time.

The cable car took us to Fisherman’s Wharf and the ferry to Alcatraz is a little more than a mile away at Pier 33. In between lies Boudin Bakery, the commercialized home of sourdough bread in the Bay Area, complete with museum and tastings. As always, wanting to see everything inevitably means seeing very little of everything. We were left with less than 30 minutes to explore Boudin (give yourself 90 minutes to tour the museum, build up desire for sourdough and then alleviate that desire with some outdoor eating). Jake was particularly impressed by the loaves in the shapes of lobsters and sharks.

When you step off the boat, park rangers greet you with an introduction reminding about the many steps and to be careful. Alcatraz’s strategic location in the middle of the bay has made it a military garrison, lighthouse and prison. Next, you are herded (I did feel a bit like cattle; this is a top destination in San Francisco and A LOT of people visit) into a room to pick up an audio device for the tour. I was skeptical at first, but this audio tour was by far one of the better tours I have ever been on in any museum. The audio used actual prisoners and guards and sounds to bring the story alive. The intense storytelling resonating through the headphones created a surreal moment as I took them off in the middle of Broadway, one of the hallways in the main part of the prison, and not a single word could be heard as several hundred people were fully engrossed in following the instructions of the audio guide.

I learned about the attempted prison breaks and the famous prisoners who made Alcatraz home. The view was tremendous, and some cells had a direct gaze onto the great city by the bay…imagine being locked up within sight of freedom the entire time. Apparently, every New Year’s Eve, the prison would get very quiet because the sounds of jubilation would flow across the bay and into the main prison house. I had my obligatory picture inside a cell before it was time to leave. We had a plane to catch and a country to bid adieu.

Jaime told me on the boat ride back to the mainland that she thought the new plan for New Zealand was great and gave it her blessing. I quickly sprung into action by calling the hotel and a rental car company to make the arrangements. I didn’t even notice the boat docking as I was engaged in my $2.39 per minute conversation. The unplan was planned and in about a day’s time we would be on the other side of the world.

Date: Sunday August 11 2008
Location: San Francisco, Muir Woods, Sausalito, Marin Headlands

Fog in San Francisco begins at the ocean. A thick layer of air condenses where the cool Pacific meets the warmer sun-drenched, craggy California coastline. The atmosphere abhors temperature differences, and air rushes in to equalize the cold water and warm air. The result is a wind that brings a ground level cloud up and over the hills of San Francisco. It is not a static phenomenon…rather an organic visible process. Fog rolls in and out and blankets the cliffs and hills and houses and bridges. The cloudy seabourne adventurer has a unique feel; it can be 20 degrees cooler inside the maelstrom than just a few miles away where the land is just far enough from the ocean that California sunshine can superheat the Earth. The edges where the fog teeters out is a most beautiful site. The thick clouds become tatters of themselves, thin finger wisps of white air moving at fantastic speeds and vanishing into the blue sky. This is morning in San Francisco.

Monday was to be an eventful day. The last strand of coastal redwoods in the greater metro area stood less than half an hour away at Muir Woods. After our visit, we had plans to meet a friend in Sausalito and wanted to bike our way there. The day started early and simple. Traffic was light, and Jaime wanted to drive down Lombard Street.  Jaime effortlessly went left, then right, then left, then right…straight down the crookedest street in the world. She was feeling good and said she’d get us across the Golden Gate to Muir Woods. I was glad not to be the driver as it afforded me the opportunity to look out the window.

As we approached the Golden Gate, the air thickened and cooled. The blue sky ceded its color back to the universe and turned milky white. The closer we got, the thicker the fog. The road curved to the right dumping us on the asphalt perched perilously high above the Pacific, but the view was shrouded. On the other side, in Marin, we drove through canyons of rock and dirt. The fog slowly started to break, and color returned to the world. The scene was surreal as streams of fog kissed the tops of trees behind us, and a cloudless sky ahead greeted us. It was a great day to be alive.

THUMP!

The car slowed, and Jaime turned pale. A tire had blown. She got us safely to the side of the road, and we were stopped. Our terrible rental car had taken a turn for the worse.

I climbed out of the car and assessed the damage. Yep. The tire was flat. Forty-five minutes later a spare was on the car, no thanks to the rental car company that advised us to just drive on the spare for the remainder of the trip (after waiting for 30 minutes on its emergency roadside assistance hotline). We weren’t going many more places, and there were still redwoods to see, so we soldiered on. Biking across the Golden Gate was now out, but we were safe and had yet another adventure to bring home with us and share.

The path to Muir Woods is longer than you’d expect and very windy. At times, we were the only ones on the road as the car held onto the narrow passageway. We were ascending, caught between the ocean and perilous mountains. It was rugged here, as so much is in this great city. We arrived at the top and parked. It was lush. Huge trees provided cover and comfort from the sun. The temperature was pleasant, the air clean, and when we saw the large wooden archway welcoming us to Muir, I felt what so many who have come to California before must have experienced….this place is big! It was raw and natural, unlike my East Coast home which had ceded its natural beauty to development decades ago.

We got a map at the visitor’s center. The standard visitor pathway was via a boardwalk on the valley floor. We wanted more of a hike with some elevation gain and away from the crowds. We were advised us to take the ocean view trail, though with a caveat: I shouldn’t expect to see the ocean. A view without a view – how intriguing.

Armed with a map, kids activity book and our freedom, we set out. It wasn’t long before a behemoth of a tree loomed before us. My neck craned to see the top. This massive sentry had stood for hundreds of years and could for hundreds more. We paused near a circular part of the boardwalk and Jake did some activities in his handbook. What better place to learn than right where the facts are. A plaque describing mammoth trees from around the world greeted us…looked as if there’d be some more for us to spot down under.

We wandered over near a guide who was teaching approximately 100 visitors about the redwoods.  He started describing the process of core drilling, where they drill into the center of a tree and count the rings to determine the tree’s age. Nowadays scientists no longer do core drillings to avoid the risks to the trees. They wait for them to die and then measure. The last major tree came down recently, finally befallen by a fatal lightning strike. For hundreds of years, that tree stood against the elements, against typhonic winds and rain, earthquakes, monsoonal rains, mud, insects, humans, fires and all fury that hell hath wrought. Did it give up its fight? Was it tired and longing to rest? I felt a connection to this tree, always standing tall to the hardships of life. I wouldn’t allow myself to believe a simple lightning strike did it in. I needed to believe that this mighty living object had simply had enough and felt it time to move on. Its proud trunk lay across the forest floor, still rigid, never risking its pride or strength even in death.

We climbed the ocean view trail, and true to warning, there was no ocean view. It was a great hike up the hill surpassing the heights of the tallest redwoods. In total, three hours of forest walking bliss passed, but Sausalito and Tiburon lay ahead.

We came off the mountain quickly and were in Sausalito in about 30 minutes. We were meeting my friend Tom at Caffe Trieste, a cute cafe right off the water. I had known Tom for over a year as he had hired me for a few projects. This was the first time I would see him. I had gotten to know him, learn about his kids and help him in business all from 3,000 miles away. Now it was time to meet face-to-face.

After a pleasant lunch, we explored the bustling village. The geek in me remembers watching Star Trek IV and seeing Spock look for the Cetacean Institute in Sausalito. I almost looked for it. Instead, there were cute boutiques to see and a winery to visit. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what Sausalito reminded me of. With its location on the bay, great restaurants, good walks and boutiques, there was a lot of Annapolis in it. There were touristy parts, which reminded me, in some tiny ways, of places like Gatlinburg. And some of it had odd suburban architecture, which is logical given its proximity to San

Francisco, but in juxtaposition to its seaside village cuteness. In the end, it certainly would deserve a second visit when we pass this way again. A nice place to walk around and shop.

We drove to Tiburon, which inhabits the end of a finger across the water from Sausalito. It was tiny in comparison and avoided any modern trappings that kept the village small and quaint. There were great photo ops with the setting sun and the water. It was quiet here and delightful. We debated staying for dinner, but I had always wanted to see the Marin Headlands, and the sun would be gone soon.

The turnoff for the headlands was right before the Golden Gate Bridge and just past where our tire had blown earlier that day. The fog that had dissipated with the day’s warmth had returned now with the setting sun. The Marin Headlands are part of the Golden Gate National Park and is made of hills and jagged cliffs that can rise almost 1,000 feet and can create their own clouds. We parked the car, and observed the fog coming in with a vengeance. We were inadequately dressed for the cold air that had descended to the ground. Summer was long gone, and autumn was barely holding on.

A rainy mist battered us as the wind picked up in strength. The whiteness had blanketed everything, and visibility marched steadily towards zero. Jake and Jaime rushed ahead, pelted by water. There were two paths, and we took the one that bore us the full brunt of the onslaught. We reached an open field, and I could hear the sounds of cars whizzing by at 60 miles per hour. The Golden Gate lay just several hundred feet in front of me, completely gone as if a magician had made it disappear. Much to Jake and Jaime’s disappointment, the photographer in me took over, and I stood at the ready waiting for a glimmer of a break to get a fog shrouded shot.

It would never come.

I became lost inside that cloud. Time stood still. I no longer felt the cold (much to my family’s chagrin). The world fell away as I stood waiting and hoping for one small break. Looking back, I remember being at peace on that cliffside. Maybe that peace was the break I was looking for.

Date: Sunday August 10 2008
Location:  San Francisco

One year ago, Jaime and I spent a frantic 16 hours in San Francisco, our first visit to the City by the Bay. We had just traveled by train from New York for three and a half days and had one night and a partial morning to see the city before we had to push on. We rode a cable car, passed Lombard Street four times, ate dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf, walked the hills and took pictures of the Golden Gate. We were exhausted.

This year we would have a lot more time.

We decided to stay in the same hotel as last year. The Baldwin Hotel (321 Grant Avenue, San Francisco CA 94108) was in a great location, inexpensive and was chock full of character. We remembered the fine-sized rooms…but that was for the two of us. My eight-year-old son would be joining us that day after spending the summer with his mother in Tennessee. The rooms were looking downright small (don’t memories always make things bigger, prettier, better?) But hey, we would only sleep there…there was way too much to do to spend time in the hotel.

The traffic was very light that Sunday morning. We breezed right down to SFO. Jakob was coming in today from Phoenix after visiting my brother. He had made his way across the country, flying unaccompanied, from New York to Tennessee to Phoenix to San Francisco. Unfortunately, the airlines, in their quest to hedge against rising fuel costs, have raised the unaccompanied minor fees. U.S. Airways is now up to $100 per flight segment. Jake is a very experienced flyer and even turns down cockpit visits. He plays his Nintendo DS and keeps to himself. Yet, I now pay $100 for very little service and for him to always be the last one off the plane.

Seeing Jakob after six weeks of separation is hard to describe. There was relief he was safe and healthy, joy that could see him smile and hear his laugh in person. He brings so much to my life. I am glad he had the summer he did, but I am also glad he was home, even if home was hotel rooms and cars for the next three weeks.

We had a rather ambitious plan, and, thankfully, the traffic was light enough to afford us the opportunity to squeeze in a few activities before that afternoon’s baseball game. We planned on having brunch at the touristy Cliff House (1090 Point Lobos Ave., San Francisco, CA 94121) in the northwestern part of the San Franciscan Peninsula perched high above the Pacific Ocean. The restaurant got its start in the 1860s when prominent San Francisco families would travel by carriage the six miles from the city center to enjoy the clean air and recreation of the roaring Pacific. Today’s third iteration of the restaurant, built in 1909, is now a top tourist destination for travelers to the Bay Area and owned by the National Park Service. It is maintained as part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area.

Our timing was impeccable, and we landed a prime table near a window. The uninspiring menu (except for the great popovers) was full of basic breakfast fare at expensive, though not exorbitant, prices. The view, however, made up for any deficiency, and we were pleasantly surprised that our food was quite tasty. We had a 180-degree view. To the south was a surfer’s beach that got busier by the minute. Thirty or so surfers crowded themselves into the water breaking seven feet above their heads. Jake was enamored by these wet suited athletes and kept pointing out the ones who fell into the water disappearing under breakers. Straight out was a seal rock inhabited by hundreds (if not thousands) of sea birds precariously waiting for the moment to ride a thermal high into the sky. These rocks were also supposed to be a haven for seals, but alas we did not see any that day. When Jake was absolutely convinced he saw two seals playing just north of the rocks, I calmly pointed out to him that seals don’t carry surfboards. It took him a few minutes.

To the north were the impressive, mysterious and craggy Marin Headlands and the Golden Gate, a narrow passageway above which is the famous bridge of the same name. The Golden Gate allows the Pacific Ocean to flow in and out of San Francisco Bay. It is an area of thunderous waves, huge boulders, cascading cliffs and caves. After breakfast, we still had 45 minutes to explore, and fortunately, a cave was but a brisk 12-minute walk from the Cliff House.

Jaime and Jake paused at the sign warning of dangerous cliffs. This was as rugged a place within an urban setting as I had seen. As we descended the cliffs, we were greeted with ruins of a long-gone bath house that stood at Point Lobos. The Sutro Bath House opened in 1896 and served three generations of San Franciscans before being decimated by fire and left for dead in 1966. Today a few walls poke out of the Earth. The weight of the building and its saltwater bath still leaves an impression that scars the landscape, forming a distinctive rectangular footprint as a reminder of days gone by, laughs once heard and swims once had. I paused for a moment…this was a pool, and it reminded me of my childhood and summers I had spent by the water. I wondered how someone who had come here as a child would feel upon looking at this crumbled memory. I was born 11 years after this place went defunct. Like so many things, it had had its time. For seven decades. The sea will reclaim it now as it always does and always will. It will be another half century before the last users of the Sutro Bath leave this Earth and with them will go all firsthand memories of this place. Are there any places that will seem long gone when I am too?

Beneath the ruins near the shoreline was a sandy cave. We entered this dark hole in the earth and were greeted with a stupendous sound. The crashing waves inside the porous rocks made a thunderous roar that reminded me of a great lightning storm. We could only really hear that sound for a few feet…the entire cave acted as a sound chamber but only a small area allowed it to reverberate. Step out of the “sound zone” and an eerie quiet and dull roar replace the thunderous claps. We walked to the end and took an obligatory picture of Jaime in front of huge boulders that had been picked up by the ocean like cotton swabs. Effortlessly, the shore pounds every minute of every day of every year of every century. Slowly, it reshapes this world, and even this cave will fall apart one day. The realization of the fragility of this cave and of the bathhouses made me hold Jake just a little closer. He’s only eight once.

By now, it was getting late, and I had imposed a baseball game upon Jaime. We would be going to the see the San Francisco Giants play the former Brooklyn Dodgers at what has been described as one of the most beautiful stadiums anywhere in the world. We had ordered tickets two months prior, but I had lost them. We almost bought more tickets but decided to try our hand at the ticket office. I dropped Jaime off to run to the stadium while I parked the car about half a mile away ($20 for the privilege). The streets were buzzing with people heading to this beautiful steel and brick structure next to the bay. We passed kayakers huddling in McCovey Cove waiting for their chance at a home run. We met Jaime just outside one of the main gates, and she had been fortunate enough to have had the ticket office reprint our tickets. Aah, the joys of modern technology! We were pleasantly surprised and grateful we did not have to pay again for a new set. We entered one of the great cathedrals of American Sport.

An early morning flight, an eventful morning and cave hiking had tuckered Jakob out. We both passed out in the fifth. I slept for an inning, Jake for two. Jaime was nice enough to capture pictures of us sleeping under the warming California sun while Manny Ramirez, recently traded from Boston to L.A., batted at least once. I woke up unaware I had missed an entire inning. One ninth of my baseball experience was gone and lost to R.E.M. Jaime smiled coyly at me…the “you always plan too much” look I have gotten used to. I smiled and secretly wished she too had taken a nap so I could have escaped the look. Having seen enough baseball, we decided to leave in the seventh. There was too much more of San Francisco to see.

We descended from our seats in the upper deck (every seat at AT&T Park affords a great view). We walked downstairs and discovered a little nook built into the side of the stadium where anybody can come for free to view the game. Separated by the water and a walkway on the south side of the stadium, nothing but a steel cage separates you from right field. I can’t imagine watching a whole nine innings here, but it is an interesting feature, and I am sure if I lived in San Francisco I would take advantage of it from time to time. We found out kids were allowed to run the bases right after the game. Unable to deprive Jake of the privilege, we waited on line and watched an incredible comeback that catapulted the Giants past the Dodgers in the ninth. I always love when the home team wins because it creates such an electric atmosphere after a game. No sooner had the team left the field than the big gates swung open and let hundreds of screaming children onto major league turf. I got to walk on the foul side of first base and was in heaven. Jake took it as a challenge and ran as fast as he could. An unexpected great memory cementing Jake’s love of the sport.

It was 4:00 P.M. now, and our thoughts turned to dinner and the evening plans. We decided to make it a light evening (if that even exists for our family) because tomorrow we would be hiking Muir Woods and trying to bike our way across the Golden Gate Bridge. I had seen a couple of brochures highlighting the “49-mile scenic drive,” a loop around the peninsula encapsulating the best sights you could see by road. Perhaps a few miles along this road, I thought, and we’d get a better feel for the area and its people; plus, I really wanted to get away from the touristy areas, so why not take a route specially designed for tourists?

My thoughts drifted to our trip the previous year: The morning we left San Francisco was dominated by a 90-minute wait for our rental car and finding our way to a vantage point to take a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. By then we were hungry – famished even. Jaime’s infatuation with In-N-Out Burger took hold (she could only get it out west, she reminded me, and had only eaten the delicacy twice in her 25 years) and she asked to eat lunch there. I reminded her we may or may not see one along the way. She said she’d wait. Coming out of town, we went due west into the Avenues section of the city. This is mainly residential with only a few restaurants and laundries dotting the landscape. It is bound by the ocean to the north and west and Golden Gate Park to the south. A few blocks from the Pacific, I spotted a small taqueria that had hordes of people waiting to get in. It seemed cheap and oh so tasty…why would so many people be drawn to this out-of-the-way place unless it was good? Jaime was hell bent on In-N-Out. I was sad. When would I pass this way again?

It would be 11 hours and over 400 miles before we spotted an In-N-Out Burger. In defeat, we had stopped to get lunch about an hour after spotting the taqueria.

Twelve months later, we had our chance to revisit the taqueria to see what we had missed. We found a good parking spot and marched in. One beef burrito, lettuce, hot salsa, cheese, black beans, rice and guac. Chips too. Overall, it was OK. Thinking back, I am not sure if it ever could’ve met my expectations. After a year of waiting, I was expecting the best burrito I had ever eaten. One interesting thing of note: This restaurant probably has the most diverse customers of all where I have dined. On the night we visited, the clientele literally ran the gamut in appearances, and I say this as a resident of the most diverse county in the world. Food does not discriminate…only people.

For the next half hour, I searched, unsuccessfully, for the 49-mile route. I came to the conclusion that it is a one-way route, and I was going against the grain. We ended up on a hill overlooking the city. I opened the car door, got up and forgot the camera was on my lap. Down it went, hitting lens-first into the rough pavement and rolling a few feet before coming to rest by the front tire. The camera itself had escaped with very little damage as the lens took most of the force. The sun was beginning to set, and we decided to try to find a good vantage point from which to watch the setting sun over the famous bridge. We weaved our way in and out of neighborhoods populated by opulent homes with extravagant views: Mediterrean villa, English country home, French estate.

The sun was getting lower, and we were getting closer and closer to the bridge. We found an unassuming place to park at the end of a cul de sac that led down the beach. From here we could walk up or down the bay and watch the sun set. With broken camera in hand, I declared this the place.

We had stumbled upon Baker Beach, a mile-long sandy trail that weaves its way from the Golden Gate Bridge out toward the open waters at the peninsula’s western edge. Closer to the bridge is a nude beach, but thankfully all the people we saw had adequate amounts of coverage.

We didn’t get very far. The views were stunning. To our right was the bridge in all its glory, a ribbon of concrete, steal and ingenuity. The powerful pylons reach deep into the sky overlooking the city and all its people. To the left was the open ocean, the mighty Pacific who’s breadth we’d soon cross. Jakob went to play by the water’s edge, and Jaime took up residence on the beach and shut her eyes. I just watched with amazement. There was a gentle breeze in the air, and ocean scents crept into my nose. Jakob busily burrowed a hole into the sand. The colors grew more spectacular by the minute. The sun’s long rays danced on the ocean, growing in prominence, one last show before she was banished by night.

I ran over to Jake and picked him up, nearly dunking his head in the frigid waters. We ran around for 10 minutes playing and wrestling, jumping in and out of sand. He wanted to show me all the shells he had found and divots of sand that amazed his imagination. Having awoken from her brief but peaceful nap, Jaime was gracious enough to capture some of this playfulness on the camera. Jake and I collapsed together from running around. The sun would vanish, and this day would be history soon enough. Jake was eight only once, but I was 31 only once. And we were at Baker Beach in August 2008 under a perfect sky only once. I gave Jake a kiss on the forehead. He complained about being cold and started getting restless. This moment would be over soon. It would join the others in my life that make me who I am. A series of moments, created by decisions and circumstances and woven together by time.

DATE: Saturday August 09 2008
LOCATION: Airplane NYC-SFO, Napa Valley , Sonoma , San Francisco 

They say a journey of 1,000 miles begins with a single step…mine began with mood lighting on an early morning flight from New York City to San Francisco .

This was my first venture on Sir Richard Branson’s attempted infiltration into North America – Virgin America. Actually this was my first Virgin experience. I am sure it won’t be my last.

The car picked us up for the airport at 4:50 A.M., setting an early wake-up time precedent that would be followed throughout the whole trip. Surprisingly, there was little traffic heading down the Van Wyck to JFK International Airport. It was a full flight leaving NYC at 7:00 AM arriving in California shortly before 10:30 AM. In an era when airlines are constantly cutting back, adding fees and even encouraging flyers to “lose some weight before boarding,” it was rather nice that Virgin America was willing to spare nothing – at least when it comes to lighting. Yes lighting. The planes have colored lighting throughout the cabin rather than the drab white fluorescence of other airlines. They greet you with “Chill Blue,” “Relax Red,” or even “The Fees Ain’t So Bad Green,” and they even change color throughout the flight – wonder if they have a sponsorship deal with Crayola. I actually liked it. Plus the safety video is really hilarious – what I saw of it anyway. 

Taking off, we were treated to a beautiful view of the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge and Coney Island. This week (September 7, 2008), Astroland, Coney Island’s quintessential middle class playground dating back to the early 1960s, closed for its final season – another nail in the coffin of old New York that has been methodically swept away due to gentrification. A $1 billion plus condo will be built by a large real estate conglomerate thus transforming the once and again blighted area. It will bring jobs and clean an island that has seen a century of ups and downs and neglect. It is a fine balance between progress and preservation that must be walked…and one that I will not undertake in this blog. Perhaps another time.

Our flight was smooth, uneventful and on time – all miracles given today’s current state of aviation. Our first hiccup (and more of an annoyance or even observation) would happen as we were leaving the airport on our way to Napa Valley. The weather was clear, even borderline beautiful. I remember a friend who said the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. The warm weather demanded us to roll down the windows and let the wind to rush through our hair as we traveled north. Except one problem. Where’s the button to put the windows down…it’s here somewhere…is it under the seat….what is…what is this? A handle thing? What do I do with it? I looked at Jaime, my faithful traveling companion. She said she thinks she saw one of those on an early 1980s Datsun. We checked the manual. This was a 2007 Dodge Caliber. WHAT THE? How do I get the windows down? OH….the handles turn…this is a brand new car from a respectable car rental place…I didn’t rent from rent-a-piece-of-crap-with-shag-carpeting. Whewww….we got the windows down. That was hard manual labor. Now how do I lock the doors?

When we had first approached the rental counter, the agent attempted to appeal to my masculine side by offering a Ford Mustang as an upgrade. Visions of aviator goggles, way too much speed and the Golden Gate Bridge flooded my mind until I realized gas was more expensive here, and we were visiting wine country and I didn’t need any further temptations. We stuck with the compact. And what a compact it was. Absolutely no frills. Whatsoever. None. Everything was manual. But the mileage was good, and we could use the arm stretching exercises we would gain from reaching over to unlock doors for each other the old fashioned way. I actually realized what a slave to automatic features I had become. On the car I own, there is no way I know of to manually roll down windows, and I haven’t touched a door lock since we bought the car.  

Driving through Napa Valley

 

One hour and 15 minutes later we were in Napa Valley . Our first winery was one of the first you hit on the Silverado Trail…Luna Vineyards (2921 Silverado Trl, Napa , CA ). It seems to be modeled after a Tuscan Villa and was pleasant enough. We had a hearty greeting when we entered the building (all of the subsequent visitors also received a hearty hello). The tasting fee is rather hefty, and at $15, it’s one of the more expensive fees I had ever paid despite visiting scores of wineries around the country. Wine is a religion here, and the tithe was high. The wine was very tasty, and the service was friendly. But as the visitors packed in and the staff methodically kept our tasting glasses flowing, it felt as if it was lacking something. My wine exploits have taken me to all sorts of wineries, from basement winerooms to trailer labs to Mediterranean style villas dug into the sides of hills. I always long for a connection between myself and those who make the wine. I want to understand and feel their motivations and what they hope to achieve. I felt something a little disingenuous about this first vineyard…a disconnect between the winemaker and the taster, as if there were too many levels between us. This was big business. I respected them for their good wine and friendly staff. I just love those little wineries where you meet the winemaker, or at the very least feel his or her presence. I had to change my expectations a little when it came to the behemoth that is Napa – I was told some authenticity still exists in the next valley over in Sonoma . But Napa was where we chose to go during this trip, and with so many wineries to hit and so little time, we pushed on.

The next winery we stopped in was an all organic place which has wonderful wines and a staff who even offered great recommendations…only problem is I don’t remember its name. I took a lot of notes about the trip, but for some reason did not attach a name to this winery. Another reason I don’t know the name of this winery is that it did not add to my increasing collection of wine glasses from around the world. I admit I have a little bit of an obsession…I love wine and wine tasting, but if I cannot buy a souvenir glass with the name of the winery on it, I feel disappointed, almost depressed. My glasses are a visual testament to the lands where I have travelled and the wine I have drunk. Without the glass, I have only my memory and a bottle or two to remind me. I NEED THAT GLASS. So please winemaker, I would love to visit you and will even offer $ to taste your vino. Just don’t let me leave without a signature piece of glass with an etching of your name to remind me and tell the world that I have visited you. It makes my journey complete, and I do not like incomplete journeys!

 

The following winery was a huge surprise and a lesson in expectations. Hagafen Cellers (4160 Silverado Trail, Napa, CA) are the makers of kosher wines. I recognized the name but couldn’t place it. It had an unpretentious tasting room. The temperature at this point had gotten almost hot, and the room was refreshingly cool. A handful of people gathered around the small room. The wine was good. It wasn’t great or amazing, but it was good. Drinkable, Refreshing, Interesting. We asked about the name and figured it was a kosher wine. We had seen this brand a few times out east. My expectation was that the wine would be barely drinkable, but it was much more than that. Hagafen Cellars had a pleasant, “come as you are” attitude and was a welcome change after the previous over-the-top wineries that tried to outdo each other. At the next winery, we started to lose interest. After several tastings and wineries, it had all started to look the same. The blandness of faux villas had started to take its toll. We decided we could only handle one more before lunch.

 

We ended up at Rutherford Hill Winery (200 Rutherford Hill Road, Rutherford, CA 94573), home of the wine cave tour. Jaime had never been in a wine cave. She had been in a cave to go tubing, a cave to spelunk, and even caves near the ocean battered by waves, but a wine cave was new. I think she half-heartedly expected the cave to be made out of wine or some other fantastic material. I almost told her it was just a cave with wine stored inside, but I didn’t want to destroy the magic. There could’ve been griffins or dragons down there, and only a pre-arranged $20 tour would protect us. But alas, a tour would not happen today. It would not start for 90 minutes and by that time we would’ve missed lunch and any chance we had to see additional wineries. While I tasted, Jaime found this great product called wine skins (I highly recommend them!). They are basically bubble wrap in the shape of a wine bottle that can be sealed to protect bottles in your checked luggage. We bought five, and all the bottles inside survived.

With so little time and so many great places to eat, narrowing down the choices was hard. But with two recommendations in hand, we settled on Rutherford Grill (1180 Rutherford Rd Rutherford, CA 94573) and couldn’t have been happier. It was about 2:30 when we arrived, and the place was jumping. We were offered immediate bar seating…as the father of an 8-year-old who was on his way to San Francisco, I relished the opportunity to sit at the bar like other adults! I didn’t know until I returned home that the restaurant is part of the Hillstone Restaurant Group, which owns a slew of restaurants including Houston’s, a tasty American grill concept found in many major cities and one of Jaime’s favorites. How ironic that Jaime commented it reminded her of Houston’s as we sat on our bar stools that day! We ordered the fantastic veggie burger and a French Dip sandwich. We were wined out by this point, so the bartender suggested a Bundaberg Ginger Beer (like Ginger Ale, but so much better). It happened to hail from Australia, and my love affair with great Australian sodas began. The meal came with one flaw…er, unexpected happenings. Jaime likes her burgers pretty plain, so we ordered lettuce and tomato on the side. But in California, they like to add mustard to everything. We forgot about this and the veggie burger came out seeped in yellowness. We quickly asked to have another burger made and chuckled to ourselves remembering that Californians always do things just a little off center. We were none the worse, and the meal was one of the best we had during the whole trip.

There was time for one more winery, and everyone told us to go to Sterling. Its neat gondola ride, fantastic views and over-the-top ostentatiousness was a must-see and embodied everything Napa had become. I must go, I was told; It is an experience. We quickly jetted up highway 29 turning north from Rutherford, past streets with names such as Zinfandel Lane, Pinot Way and Pope Street (hey, check the map). We sped past the Mondavi Estate (and what an estate it is). We heard the last gondola ride is around 4:30. We arrived at 4:15 and thankfully were able to buy tickets. The queue wasn’t that long as we approached the sky ride to the top of the hill. Is this a winery? I just paid for a ski lift ticket…I’ve never bought a lift ticket before. There was a Hudson Valley winery in New York State that used tokens as a kind of gimmick, but this vineyard was huge. Absolutely huge. This was an attraction, not a winery. It was touristy but unabashedly so, and I was excited. Up the hill we climbed. At the top we were greeted with grand buildings and even grander views. A self-guided walking tour gave us the history of the winery. Down a long corridor, framed pictures told the story. Only one thing was missing. And just when I realized it, a small bar appeared out of nowhere for our first tasting. It was like “It’s a Small World” for adults…with wine. Ok, so it wasn’t like a small vineyard in character, and I am sure none of the 400 or so workers who whisked us along on our tour knew the winemaker, but this whole ordeal was on another level entirely. And it was fun. And the wine was good. And the sun shallowing in the sky provided the perfect backdrop. Nothing could go wrong in this Eden-like shrine. If wine here is indeed a religion, I had reached the Vatican, and the Holy See was ready to see me.

After the tour, we were to proceed to the main building to complete the wine tastings but were instead greeted by a lengthy line of people, throngs of them. Apparently, the gondola had been shut down and the only way to get off the hill was inefficiently with vans. The apple had been eaten. A van ride cramped with tourists was no way to complete this journey. There was only one answer for whinos like ourselves….we went back for more wine tasting to wait out the crowds.

This was fun!

30 minutes, 4 tastings and 2 souvenirs later, Sterling was preparing to close. Our gamble had paid off and there would be no waiting. The van took us off the hill, and at the bottom, an employee opened the door and presented us with coupons for free entry upon our next visit. I asked if airfare was included. The guy stared blankly and did not answer.

It was 6:00 PM and most wineries were closed now, but we had a few more hours of sun left. We decided to cross the mountains and head south to Sonoma on our way back to ‘Frisco. The sun was getting low in the sky, and we were in vineyard paradise. The hills had been cleared of trees and bushes and replaced with rows and columns of vines. The vines provided order to nature’s chaos. They followed the contours of the earth as if someone had taken a straightedge. The sun popped behind the hills, and it was cool in the shadows. The air smelled clean here, and if I closed my eyes, I could hear the winemakers swirling a glass of newly minted Cabernet Franc, debating whether it had been oaked enough, or a vineyard worker painstainkingly plucking the grapes off a vine for a reserve that would not be sold for five years. Here in this valley, people were bottling the earth and selling hard work and dreams. They had refined a land ravaged by earthquakes. They measured their years in vintages and their seasons by rainfall. This was the land of the endless vine.

We stopped in the town of Sonoma with its grand central square and decidedly western feel. Many a boutique greeted us, but we were tired. We grabbed some ice cream, walked once around the square and proceeded toward the Golden Gate. We were hungry but figured we’d find something along the way.

Jaime’s had a fascination with In ‘N Out Burger since one of her first trips out west…and I can’t blame her. This is the slowest fast food you will ever have…and the tastiest.  Anybody who’s had a burger is an instant convert. The fries are even made from real potatoes and sliced at each location. Crazy, I know. One interesting thing of note at the particular joint we happened upon:  the fry cook acted as if he was going for gold in an international fry competition. His swift maneuvers and deftness with salt was truly something to behold. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew exactly how many fry orders he filled that night and how many fries were in each order.

Armed with cheeseburgers and fries, and with the lyrics to Full House blaring in our heads and spewing from our lips, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time. If we only had a convertible…

Eveywhere you look,
When you’re lost out there and you’re all alone,
A light is waiting to carry you home,
Everywhere you look.
Everywhere you look.

Posted in Australia / New Zealand | 4 Comments »

Dismiss the Electronic Tether

Monday, September 8th, 2008

22 days and 25,000 miles….I have safely returned from New Zealand and Australia and will be writing about my travels over the coming days.

 

For 3 weeks, I turned off my blackberry, had less than 1 hour of, and had my cell phone off almost all of the time. By the end of the trip, I was even taking the daring move of leaving my hotel without any electronic accessories. Much to my surprise, I was not anxious about the loss of this tether…nor did I necessarily feel liberated either. Electronic devices do provide a function and are great in emergency situations. I learned on this trip that blackberries and cell phones, like all things in life, are fine in moderation. Since returning, I do check my blackberry often, but I have occasionally left the house without it. Same for my cell phone. These devices will never be too far; they fill my boredom, help me to find new and cool restaurants, help me in my shopping pursuits, and enable me to stay connected with distant friends. What I did learn, though, is that the world will not blow up or cease to exist just because the tether is temporarily cut. So…unplug every so often…you will be reminded of what great things the devices can give you… and be thankful for the things they can’t.

Dirt Road in South Australia (Barossa Valley)

 

 

Posted in Australia / New Zealand | No Comments »

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