The Wave Organ
I was becoming a wizard at fried bread, white rolls cut in two, fried in hot butter then topped with sharp cheddar and an egg. It was a Zen karma gift to my wife and hosts: many mornings of happy bellies to you.
This day was bright and sunny. The fog was absent for the second day in a row, and we took advantage of the weather to climb up to the top of Bernal Heights Park where Rob, Kate, and Marley, the black wispy dog, were walking. They gave us a bird's eye tour of the city, everything that could be seen, which was north to the bay, east to Oakland, and west just to Twin Peaks.
We made plans to visit the wave organ just east of the Presidio on a narrow jetty of land stretching into the Bay. Our driver wound through the streets until we reached the Marina District where we abruptly jumped out of the cab and walked down Chestnut street in search of food. When we settled, I ordered a big plate of Thai rice along with a glass of purple wine.
The walk to the wave organ was expectedly windy and cool, but at the organ itself, it was still and sunny and warm owing to the big terraced marble steps leading down to the water into which the organ was built and which sheltered it from the wind. The pipes blurted out only spurious gurgles - the organ is most musical only at high tide - but I took the opportunity to crawl down to the lowest steps and touch the varied sea weeds growing there, which were nori said one old woman who was visiting as well.
I came up over the salt-and-pepper steps once to find Susan watching the birds, and it was in fact too cold and uncomfortable, so I went back down and laid on a long marble slab - Shavasana, dead man's pose - with my pack under my head for comfort and the old, river-blue ball cap pulled down over my eyes, and I meditated and melted in the golden syrup sun flowing into brief peppercorn dreams with Susan sitting right by me binocularing a seal in the Bay with a shiny, shaved monk head. I was a regular Indiana Jones snatching a few winks as one adventure faded into another. Then, after a while, Susan laid down too and I took up the watch over her and gave her the bag for her pillow. Rob and Kate slept too in a small alcove built of marble and brick. All the while, sea water, Thai food, and sun baked, ruinous marble made me thirsty.
Eventually we walked the groggy mile back to the main land where we parted ways. Susan and I watched the birds around the Palace of the Arts and generally marveled at the beautiful and massive columns and cathedral. We also stopped for coffee and water.
Through the Presidio, then, to the Lyon Street Steps where we climbed up as high and then higher than a towering redwood, and we looked back over the steps to the Bay. We finally made our way to Alta Plaza Park where we sat on wide steps and waited for our Lyft driver who gave us a terrifying ride all the way to the Mission District. "To drive in this city, you must have passion," he told us, but I think he mostly had anger.
We ate dinner at a charming Mexican joint next to a burned out building on eighteenth and Mission, Gracias Madre. Then, a long walk home down Valencia, across 24th to grab some Spanish pastries, and up and around the northern slopes of Bernal Hill, where we saw a coyote which had been snatching small pets from backyards, we were told by our hosts.
We returned home about ten o'clock and drank some beers and chatted with Kate and Rob and played with the kitten once more. That night we set our alarms for an early rise and the long journey home.
This day was bright and sunny. The fog was absent for the second day in a row, and we took advantage of the weather to climb up to the top of Bernal Heights Park where Rob, Kate, and Marley, the black wispy dog, were walking. They gave us a bird's eye tour of the city, everything that could be seen, which was north to the bay, east to Oakland, and west just to Twin Peaks.
We made plans to visit the wave organ just east of the Presidio on a narrow jetty of land stretching into the Bay. Our driver wound through the streets until we reached the Marina District where we abruptly jumped out of the cab and walked down Chestnut street in search of food. When we settled, I ordered a big plate of Thai rice along with a glass of purple wine.
The walk to the wave organ was expectedly windy and cool, but at the organ itself, it was still and sunny and warm owing to the big terraced marble steps leading down to the water into which the organ was built and which sheltered it from the wind. The pipes blurted out only spurious gurgles - the organ is most musical only at high tide - but I took the opportunity to crawl down to the lowest steps and touch the varied sea weeds growing there, which were nori said one old woman who was visiting as well.
I came up over the salt-and-pepper steps once to find Susan watching the birds, and it was in fact too cold and uncomfortable, so I went back down and laid on a long marble slab - Shavasana, dead man's pose - with my pack under my head for comfort and the old, river-blue ball cap pulled down over my eyes, and I meditated and melted in the golden syrup sun flowing into brief peppercorn dreams with Susan sitting right by me binocularing a seal in the Bay with a shiny, shaved monk head. I was a regular Indiana Jones snatching a few winks as one adventure faded into another. Then, after a while, Susan laid down too and I took up the watch over her and gave her the bag for her pillow. Rob and Kate slept too in a small alcove built of marble and brick. All the while, sea water, Thai food, and sun baked, ruinous marble made me thirsty.
Eventually we walked the groggy mile back to the main land where we parted ways. Susan and I watched the birds around the Palace of the Arts and generally marveled at the beautiful and massive columns and cathedral. We also stopped for coffee and water.
Through the Presidio, then, to the Lyon Street Steps where we climbed up as high and then higher than a towering redwood, and we looked back over the steps to the Bay. We finally made our way to Alta Plaza Park where we sat on wide steps and waited for our Lyft driver who gave us a terrifying ride all the way to the Mission District. "To drive in this city, you must have passion," he told us, but I think he mostly had anger.
We ate dinner at a charming Mexican joint next to a burned out building on eighteenth and Mission, Gracias Madre. Then, a long walk home down Valencia, across 24th to grab some Spanish pastries, and up and around the northern slopes of Bernal Hill, where we saw a coyote which had been snatching small pets from backyards, we were told by our hosts.
We returned home about ten o'clock and drank some beers and chatted with Kate and Rob and played with the kitten once more. That night we set our alarms for an early rise and the long journey home.
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