Christmas in Pictures

For those of you too lazy to read, it just so happens that I am too lazy to write. Christmas, although odd and different, was lovely for the most part. We had a little tree, a gingerbread house, a chocolate log and stars and stripes socks. What more could anyone need?

I'm clearly fooling no one, everyone knows Santa's beard is white, not purple, but I've got the ruddiness down to an art form.

Look - real, proper cheese. Every mouthful was bliss, and not a can in site.




Mike is a very talented man. Home made peace cranes decorated our tree. I did some initial folds to help and placed them artfully. Artful placing is a talent that not many people recognise, perhaps erroneously.




British? Us?

Sweets Like Chocolate

I won't be changing my name in Ike in a hurry.

A few weeks ago, I went to Safeway and found bars of Cadbury's chocolate on sale. Imagine my delight. Actually, I'm not sure you can. That isn't to say that I think you have a limited imagination, but this was excessive and involved much finger wiggling, cheesy grins and surprised and excited shrieks. In public.

I got them home and even managed to unpack everything before ripping the sweet nectar open in a half crazed frenzy. My saliva was primed and even though it looked wrong, the packet was purple, so it must be Cadbury's, right? If I had taken the time and stopped to smell it, I would have known it was wrong but belly rumbling, mind full of greed, I bit into the most disgusting brown substance I have ever tasted...ever. Then, I read the packet.

I feel utterly betrayed. It is of course, Hershey's chocolate wrapped in Cadbury's packaging!! How could they do that? Hershey's have bought the licence, but clearly the purple colour package, the logo and the royal approval (or whatever it is) is where it ends. I'm too upset to write any more, you will have to insert your own bile here.

And Even Without the Tablecloth...

Thanksgiving is my new best day, but that may be the wine talking. We are stuffed to the rafters, have forgone the pumpkin pie for the time being and Mike and Dan have settled in for the night watching the cartoons of their youth on You Tube.

The sweet potato concoction was met with much applause. I liked the sweet potato bit but remain unconvinced about the marshmallows on top however the mixture of sweet and savoury on the plate worked well together. Lucky I guess as there are so many leftovers.

Anyway, I have games to play and wine to drink, for tomorrow, we will need our energy for 'Black Friday'. Despite the sinister name, it is the biggest sale of the year and despite the lack of funds, it would be rude to miss it. They are turning on the Christmas tree lights at Macy's too, which may prove to be too much excitment in the one day but I will try to pace myself. The festive season has officially begun. Then there is 'Cyber Monday' ( I know, it's crazy) which is for the people too lazy to move, or incapable I guess, to have their own sales online. Happy Thanksgiving!

Marshmallows, Yams and Yellow Toe

I'm all for another excuse for eating, drinking and playing games and an authorised day off (although strictly speaking, every day is a day off for me at the moment, so I'll call it an extra day I get to spend with Mike). We have both felt a bit lukewarm towards Thanksgiving up to now viewing it as nothing more than a nice break but nothing special, not like Christmas or anything.

Then, something changed. I can't pinpoint what it was exactly, but Google (my muse it seems) had a lot to do with it. Dan changed his plans and asked whether he could come here instead of spending the day with his landlady's friends, and together with the change in supermarket food, constant emails asking whether I would be ready for Thanksgiving i.e had I got my autumnal coloured tablecloth? (only it didn't mention Autumn of course and there wasn't the all important extra 'u' included) a sense of occasion fell upon me. I did some research to find out what exactly what this was all about and what I was meant to cook. Thanksgiving is all about spending time with your family and giving thanks for all that has happened in the year before, mimicking the first meal of the Pilgrim Fathers. Or something like that anyway, Wikipedia explains it better. I'm not so good at facts.

Before, I was just going to roast a chicken and crack open a bottle of wine as a cosy meal for two. Now there are three of us and we could do that any old day in Britain. So, when in Rome and all that, I have decided, with some persuasion from Mima to go all out and cook up my version of Thanksgiving. I found with my chicken and veg plans I was missing the fundamental thanksgiving ingredient, sugar.

This is the menu I finally came up with. I'm not sure whether it will win many prizes for authenticity and you will have to wait for the next thrilling installment to see how it all tasted. If I haven't blogged in a week's time, please assume that we are in hospital.

Chicken ( I make no apology, I don't really like turkey and it seems that they only sell them in our local supermarket in trolley sized portions)

Homemade cranberry sauce ( one of the things I love about the US is the fact that you can only buy fruit and veg in the correct season and the range that you get over here is of a higher quality and much broader. I cook according to what is cheap and therefore in season. I'm not sure that I have ever seen fresh cranberries on sale in the UK, and certainly not for about £1)

Cornbread stuffing with cranberries and walnuts ( I had a whole bag of cranberries to use. At least we shouldn't get any urinary tract infections)

Cabbage and Walnuts (sort of that recipe. Yeah OK, walnuts were cheap too!)

Roast tatties (I can't remember the last time I had one, I'm salivating just thinking about it)

Yams with Marshmallows (I'm dubious frankly, but Nigella said it would be OK and I trust her..)

Pumpkin Pie (if we can fit it all in)

Lots of wine and ridiculous made up games plus karaoke (probably)

One day I will write a straight list without somehow having to justify the individual items.

I realise that I am only cooking for only 3 people but it means I will only have to cook once this weekend and we can live on leftovers. Unless of course it all proves to be so disgusting that we compost the lot...

By the way, the little toe on my right foot has turned yellow and I am not sure how. I don't think it is part of any Thanksgiving tradition, and only time will tell if it will become one. It could be fun!

In the Eye of the Beholder

As requested...

Just in case you are worried for next time, I have a whole bag full of terrible facial poses and bad hair days. Sigh.

Behind the Spangly Curtain: Cheered up by a Cute Nose

We discovered the best shop in the world recently. Mike actually blogged about this himself (too many bloggers in the house) but although the facts are the same, our approaches differ wildly. He gave it one paragraph in a post about other stuff:

Pika Pika is a shop in Japan Town that consists almost solely of 7 large, Japanese photobooths. Though that does them an injustice. They have automatically rotating backgrounds that drop in and out behind you, some spangly, some lurid pink or pea green. You can photograph 10 different poses and then customise the prints with near infinite variety of insane additions (gerbils, stars, microphones and santa hats). This includes touching up, so Blues edited my thinning wig with luxurious Bob-Downe-in-dark-brown lusciousness. They print almost instantly, once you can tear yourself away from the editing screens. And they're stickers. Stickers?! Genius.

It is a good post. Here is my version.

We discovered the best shop in the world recently. It's in Japantown and is a shop full of nothing but 7 big photo booths. The walls are adorned with photos of smiling people looking as if they have been vandalised by several nursery schools worth of toddlers, half crazed with e numbers, and let loose with crayons.

We visited it on a week day and the place was packed, mainly with teenagers spending their pocket money and I have to say that if I had the pleasure of living here when I was growing up, I too would have frittered away my money here, rather than wasting it all on drugs and booze.

We wandered around the shops seeking some inspriration, utterly baffled by how to use the machines which have their instructions in Japanese. We passed by an old fashioned coat and hat stand which had a sign that simply said 'props'. It was tempting but we were too busy stepping inside machines hoping that Japanese would be easy to master in seconds, and stepping out again to watch how the youngsters were doing it. There were giggles and looks of total incomprehension and nothing in between. We were almost too shy to get help, but Mike (my hero, swoon, etc etc....) bit the bullet as he is so much braver than me and asked the shop man. He explained it all patiently to us (and complimented me on my bag so obviously he is my new best friend) and was just generally lovely despite being asked a million different things by hormone raged teens and two rigid and ever so proper Brits.

We entered the giant machine, fed it some of this fake money we use over here and pressed the buttons we had been advised to press and then pulled a variety of ugly and stupid faces as the machine randomly adjusted the background curtains and happily snapped away. When it was finished with us, we entered a second curtain clad wing of the machine. The lovely shop man actually saw us and came over to explain this section as well and embarrassingly, with my tongue stuck out in extreme concentration and possibly a little drool, I had already started to decorate the pictures with random Japanese wording, pictures of cats, sunflowers, hearts, glitter, cake, Santa hats, bubbles - you name it, we threw it on. I was able to cover the parts of my face I especially don't like with stars. I even enlarged our eyes and gave us better hairstyles with one of the pictures. We worked quickly side by side, a special kind of happy in the air, laughing at the latest creations we had made and discovering yet more options we could use.

Then when we were finished we received more instructions we could never hope to understand and we jabbed wildly at the screen as it started a countdown which automatically induces panic. You have to choose 6 of your favourite to be big and the rest will be little and even though you have been told this already by a lovely man who likes your bag, you make all the wrong choices and start to sweat a bit and you are glad you are sitting behind a curtain so no one can see you, and wish that you weren't the oldest people in the shop, or British, or anything else that makes you stand out so very much.

Then it's all over. We came out from under the curtain and tried to work out where our photos would come out praying that we got their first.

My toes were tingling in excitement and joyous anticipation. The photos came out practically straight away with none of the dryer business you get from back home. They were dry and perfect and a colourful mess of face and santa hats. As Mike mentioned, they are also stickers. Stickers! All for $7. The best fun in the world and you get to take home stickers with your face on?? Perfection itself.

Next time, we will be using the props....

I Just Called to Say I Blog You*

I discovered last night that the only phone numbers I can remember are thus:

1. My first ever home phone number
2. My mum's current home phone number
3. Mike's old mobile number
4. Mike's parents' home phone number
5. My old mobile number
6. My current phone number
7. The phone number for Going Live
8. A chat line number (Chat Back - go on google it!) from around 1997 which was constantly advertised with a clearly catchy jingle

And that is it. Eight numbers. Two of which I have never even called, from a twenty nine year and eleven month life involving several moves and corresponding phone numbers. I am not sure what this says about me, but I am thinking I should maybe reference it on my resume. Which reminds me...

* title supplied by a monkey obsessed limb clicking boy, currently dancing around the room with only his feet and elbows. We have had too much coffee, sorry.

Fanny's Your Aunt

I like words. They are enormously important. I have my personal everyday favourites and some which I keep just for special occasions. Sometimes, if I like the sound of a word or just how it makes my mouth move, I will say it over and over again. Rapscallion, gusset, knickerbockers, winkle pickers, guttersnipe, codswallop, poppycock, plop. I have never been thrown off a bus yet [but as an interesting aside, Mike has, for smelling of day old crab.]

When someone asks me what I do for a living, I would like to describe myself as a wordsmith, but that would lead to enormous pressure to be witty, intelligent and urbane. I am much better on paper. Out loud, there are other people involved. Shudder.

Words have to be used correctly and effectively though. For my new American resume, I am supposed to be branding myself, with an arresting tag line which states my key skills, and what I could do better than anyone else to raise productivity, morale, profit... I'm struggling. I can't get past the first word. It is something a little more than writer's block. I don't have an easy title to throw in to the mix. I just do stuff. I am not a freelance scientist, a hairdresser, a software engineer, a marketing manager, a circus clown, a nurse, a police officer, an accountant, a teacher. I'm just me. Perhaps a wannabe wordsmith with labelling issues would be suitable?

In between my twenty minute bouts of job hunting and resume tweaking, I discovered that there are many words commonly used in the UK which would mean nothing to an American, more so perhaps than the other way round. I have therefore composed a baffling sentence.

What a kerfuffle! I bought cagoule on the high street so I could abseil in the rain, when some chav carrying candy floss from the dodgems, wearing a daft hat and dustman's jacket, ran into me and Bob's your uncle, my coat had been nicked. I was gobsmacked. I called the Old Bill, cut my losses and took a trip to the offy. I'll just wear a jumper covered in cling film instead.

All of this is very lovely in a slightly deranged way, but I am no closer to employment am I? You are so distracting.

The Tenacious D

Dan spent the whole of today (and by that I mean about fourteen hours on and off) trying to convert the 3GP film he took of the jazz festival on his mobile phone to a usable wmv film to import to his blog. The efforts were well worth it though, and thanks to him, for your delectation dear reader, without further ado, will you welcome to the stage, the irrepressible, the magnificent, that talented dancing duo......Mr Brown and Mr Orange.

Sit back, turn your volume up, press here and say hello to San Francisco.

Chosen

Another hot Saturday in San Francisco, a need to be outside, and very little money saw us visit the Fillmore Centre Plaza Jazz Festival, a free afternoon concert headlined by the legendary Booker T (minus his MGs) to celebrate the opening of a new public space in the Jazz district. In this part of the city, Sunday had got impatient for its turn and muscled its way in a day early, leaving in its wake a very relaxed and low key mood.

We visited a very small old fashioned ice cream shop with one wall containing a board of flavours, one wall with jar after jar of sweets, and one wall containing a counter propped up by a well-seasoned man in a hat and apron looking like his heart had never left the 50s, even if his body had. He took my order for 3 single scoops of rainbow sherbet, but before he handed them over the counter, he asked me, with his deep beautiful voice, where I was from, and when I told him, he said I "talked real nice." I thanked him and as I was paying, he told me that if I ever come back this way again, to make sure that I drop in. I smiled and told him that I would, and I very much meant it.

With our sherbet full bellies we could really soak up the festival, a very small but perfectly formed affair made up mainly of locals and die hard jazz fans, some Shaun of the Dead extras, and us. There were two small food stalls selling the most delicious smelling and looking, and then tasting, barbecued chicken and ribs. When we arrived people were milling around eating and drinking, a few people were jazz-swaying or otherwise appreciating the music. One couple had fallen asleep in the middle of the plaza, and when one of the pair woke up, he looked genuinely shocked that there was music playing and people had crowded around him. The fact that they left shortly after waking confirmed my notion that they hadn't intended to be here.

Booker T's performance was excellent - there was a short and unplanned intermission due to a broken guitar string and his need to pee, but otherwise he played for just over an hour. The crowd though provided what could have been hours and hours of free and fascinating entertainment. People were really dancing now; giving it what for. Two of the dancers, who I shall imaginatively call Mr Orange and Mr Brown stood out in particular.

Mr Orange was a very petite man perhaps in his late 50s, with a grey beard standing out against the backdrop of his orange T-shirt, and with eyes that twinkled with mischief. His smile was frequent and delighted and he danced like a gleeful pixie who had tricked a foolish king of his youngest daughter.

Mr Brown was younger, taller and wider than Mr Orange. He danced with all his heart and soul, moving every muscle, every inch of flab and every limb, often all at once, and at speed. In short, he was amazing. He danced the dance of the outsider, the joyful, the passionate, the happy, the sad, the self-conscious, the wildly egotistical, the insecure, the no-holds-barred-taken-captive-by-the-music and happily succumbing to its power shimmy. He flailed randomly. He shook. He sidestepped. Throughout the dancing, he grinned like a loon and generally had a ball.

When Mr Orange and Mr Brown hooked up and danced together, it was a truly marvellous moment.

When Mr Brown approached me and asked me if I wanted to dance, I was overwhelmed.

More Time A-Wasting

The name is the best thing about it - I especially love the spelling and use of two colours for emphasis - but not too bad. For Hershey.



Supposed to be some sort of toffee. Gag worthy.

The Lost Chart

If you cast your mind back to the MP3 experiment post I did (I am not going to link to it. I am supposed to be job hunting after all, which is why I am doing so many postings all of a sudden. I am fully confident that you can find it though- here's a clue, it is called Notes from the Outside.)

Memories refreshed then, you will recall that I spoke of a chart on a napkin I produced "depicting the strength of crowd reaction to the experiment over time... which one of our companions, Ed, took a picture of. I like my work to be appreciated. I managed to then lose it after I promised I would upload it to the blog. I seem to remember it was rubbish though and had badly proportioned stick people and unrealistic umbrella pictures." Well, here it is (down a bit). Ta da. Not only is all of the above true, it is also impossible to read and gain any sense out of it post-event.

So, if you have a company based in San Francisco near a Muni route which needs someone who clearly has excellent procrastination skills; the ability to skirt around an issue almost indefinitely, appalling customer service with matching bad attitude and low motivation; 'interesting' communication attributes; the ability, but total unwillingness, to adapt; excelent attetnion to detail; worrying interpretations of data (including dubious logic but lots of creative thinking); shocking numeracy and lack of commercial awareness; no ambition, but with high salary expectations, I am free until the end of June 2009.



Picture courtesy of Ed's blog. In case you are reading this Ed, thank you, and sorry for not asking permission first.

Do you know the way to San Jose?

Yes.

Windswept and Short

Me, Mike, Dan

Please note that we are on a hill and Mike is crouching.

Note further that Mike is neither a monkey or a Frankie Howerd impersonator.

Consumerism

A small sample of the beer shelf at Whole Foods. After the Big Ass beer evening, I am more hesitant now than I was to try comedy booze.


Made by Nestle, containing peanuts, caramel and a kind of nougat, and covered by the greasy substance which passes for chocolate. I have not tried one, and do not intend to, even for the purposes of research, but Holly recently ate half before retiring.

Jimmy; the man, the legend

You won't remember Jimmy because I met him before I started to blog. Jimmy was the second American we met after we landed. The first was our very friendly cab driver who used to live in the UK and who told us that we wouldn't be needing our clothes here, and that if we wanted anything, anything at all, to give him a call. He meant of course that the weather would be so different, a new set of clothes may be in order. He must have lived in London before I was born, when people wore long johns, snow shoes, greatcoats and mittens in the summer.... or maybe he just feels the cold more than I. Needless to say, our clothes have be more than sufficient, and we never did call him. Forget about him though, it is Jimmy that I want to talk about.

Jimmy opened our bank account for us the day after we arrived. He laughed and joked the whole time and made us feel extraordinary welcome in a way I certainly have never experienced in a bank before. He patiently answered all our questions, even when we struggled to contain our surprise and some scorn when we were told about the direct debit system here - someone in the bank gets a message when you want to pay a bill, writes the cheque for you as per your online banking instruction, pops it in an envelope with a stamp and posts it on your behalf. I do have a image of a lovely little old lady (Mavis?) with a stack of envelopes and a younger boy, possibly called Geoffrey, handwriting the electronic details and putting them on a paper spike for Mavis, no, Gladys. Yes, Geoffrey and Gladys; they make a formidable team.

Back to Jimmy. He made a real impression on both Mike and I and we left happy that we had a bank account, and it had been such a lovely morning.

So, when Dan came over and needed to open a bank account, imagine my joy when Jimmy walked up, beaming from ear to ear as ever, to shake his hand and welcome him to the bank. Before this time, I had met Jimmy once, three and a half months ago, so imagine my standard joy quickly turn into utter high-pitched-squeak-producing glee, when he said to me that not only did he remember me, but, a mere second later, Jimmy, the amazingly happy despite working for a bank and memory manipulator extraordinaire, produced my name from out of his mouth, and into the air. I was stunned. I cannot even imagine how many people have passed through this man's office in that amount of time in this main city branch, and yet, the man did not only remember my face, but my actual name.

Bank account opened, card activated, frivolity exchanged, hands shook and I assured Jimmy that if any more of my family decide to come and work in the area, I will of course recommend him and his bank highly, at length, and perhaps rather too enthusiastically to them.

Trains, Buses and Skate Boards

Yesterday Dan and I went to Santa Cruz to see his new city of abode for the first time, to register his presence at the university and to look for some places for him to live.

Santa Cruz is some 77 miles away from San Francisco (the equivalent of London to Peterborough or Liverpool to Windermere), and involves a train ride and then a bus. The return journey cost $23 (just shy of £14). A quick glance at the national rail enquiries website revealed to me that an early morning walk up fare in Liverpool would be £28.10 and in London £34.70. Considering the state of California alone is 3 times the size of England, either the rail system here is very impressive, or Britain is even worse than I thought, and my opinions are very low owing to half a lifetime of heavy train use.

We rode on a shiny silver double decker train to San Jose which left just after 7am. It was clean and quiet and allowed me to soak up the visual feast from the top deck. In just over an hour we rolled into San Jose where our connecting bus was there to meet us, you know, exactly what you hope will happen. We didn't have to sit in a desolate station for over an hour with no facilities and no information to board a train so crowded that you gag from the heady stench of stale and fresh sweat when you push your way on. The smell of bad chemical toilets wasn't so overpowering that eating anything at all on board was out of the question. The ticket system didn't require a post doctorate in differential calculus in order to work out the best deal, or planning your trip twelve and a half years in advance. We had to pick single or return and then the zone we needed from a clear list and pay our fare. We arrived on time and if we had of stopped, we would have been given clear information as to why, with an apology and an estimated time of starting again. I know this because it happens on all of the other transport systems here.

The bus driver who took us to Santa Cruz was alarmingly cheerful. On the way back, he even complimented me on my skill at depositing $4 worth of quarters into the automated ticket machine, at speed. We shared the bus with a man carrying a right-wing placard and a large black bag full of recyclables to sell, in clothes which hadn't been cleaned this month, and who told a girl (who he may or may not have known) that Jesus saves; a man who had those horrible extended ear things and a pair of female eyes tattooed into the back of his head; giggling teenage girls presumably off to the famous Board walk for the day; and Silicon Valley workers. The bus (via an automated voice and scrolling text screen) was even considerate enough to point out some of the sites of the journey. The inhabitants of this bus were a good indication of the wealth of characters who filled the streets of Santa Cruz.

The university was truly enormous, located on 2,000 acres of farmland requiring one of their free shuttle buses to get you to where you need to be. For such a big size, there were very few maps or even names on buildings, so as you tramp through the forests, and across wooden bridges ( I cannot even begin to describe this place and any description I give will be wholly inadequate so I will stop there) you have to call upon the help of the students, who were exactly the same as any teenage college series I have ever seen. It was incredible. Later when house hunting, we even saw a sandy haired, braced up, American school boy skate boarding in suburbia, Saved by the Bell style. Sometimes I have to remind myself, yes, I do live in America now.

The day was a success as Dan found himself a place to live very easily for a what passes as reasonable price in these parts. He will be a lodger to a psychotherapist called Barbara and moves in hopefully on 1st November. I am sure there will be plenty of fodder in a mere 10 months time to write several best sellers and live off the interest, but alas, the stories won't be mine to tell.

A Light Relief from Words Part 2: Assorted

Ferry Building, home to boats and food.



A mean and moody looking Alcatraz, from the boat going home from Sausalito at the end of a warm Saturday.


The view from the top of Mission Dolores Park looking into the city, on the day of the MP3 experiment.

Japanese Tea Garden

I am aware than despite all my words, I often do not do justice to the beauty of the scenery. These go some way to capture the serenity of the tea garden.

This bridge was so much steeper than it looks and I managed to hurt my knee on the descent. The poor woman on it was terrified and she is being helped down by her father. It is utterly incongruous in a relaxing, lush and peaceful garden, and all the more beautiful for it.

Three Gratuitous Bridge Shots

A Light Relief from Words: Air Show

Holly's Holiday Highlights

I thought I would do some brief reviews of the places I took Holly on her recent holiday, which I haven't already mentioned previously. These are my opinions though - it was just 'clever' alliteration to use that extra H.

Note my ambitious use of the word brief. Please place your bets now whether I can do it, without scrolling down the page to see that so blatantly haven't.

Alcatraz - just amazing and well worth the money. I am surprised but happy to report that it was thoroughly interesting, well organised, minimally commercialised and with beautiful scenery; practically flawless. We took an evening tour which meant that you got extra guided tours which delved further into stories of the more notorious criminals, and saw the city lit up from over the water, and if you time it right, which we didn't (but did on another day) you can see the sun set over the Golden Gate Bridge. I wanted to stay later but my feet had the final say.

Mama's on Washington Square - a American breakfast diner which we got up at 6am on a Sunday morning to go to. It didn't disappoint and thanks to the very early start, we were lucky enough to get the last seat in the first wave so didn't queue for too long. The food was amazing and the portions typically huge. I had a French toast sampler place with all sorts of fruit, Mike had Eggs Florentine, Holly had eggs and bacon, US style - and as it was a special treat, we got a side plate of pancakes to share. We struggled to move after it all. The prices were reasonable, the service was spot on, very friendly but not intrusive and despite the growing queue outside, they didn't hurry you along and refilled teas and coffees the minute your cup was running low.

I am not good in the morning and grumbled to Mike (who is frankly even worse in the morning) that this would have to be a spiritual experience, to get up at 6am just for food. There was no other worldly visitations, no epiphany or enlightenment, no bleeding statues and no messages in the tea leaves (it was a tea bag anyway), but I would get up and I will go again. I just have to do some digesting first.

SFMOMA (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) - perhaps it is because previously I have been spoilt for choice for excellent free art galleries, but I really couldn't believe that they seriously expect people to pay for this. It opens at a very lazy 11am, so we had to queue for a few minutes before the ticket booth opened. After some nasty queue action and general pre-ticket ill feeling (caused entirely by an overzealous jobsworth employee who everyone wanted to stab in the eye, or maybe that was just me) we got into the gallery. If I wasn't being brief I would tell you all about the pretension of the place, the intellectual inaccessibility (no information signs anywhere or descriptions of artefacts), and the two tier system emerging from the fact that the entrance fee entitled you building entrance and then you were expected to pay extra to gain any insight into the works on show. As I am being brief though, I will simply state that the place sucked. I would not recommend it to anyone, unless you were desperate for an art fix. They had some amazing and very famous pieces, which they had just plonked down and labelled if they felt like it.

The best part of the experience was meeting an extremely charming woman who asked Holly to take her picture, telling her exactly where to stand for the best light and precisely what she wished to be included in the photo, and then inviting me into the shot as 'she was all on her own' only to have me (at least triple her size) blot out anything she could have wanted in it. Still, I put on my best smile and I hope I make the final cut into her post holiday slide show.

Anchor Steam Brewery Tour - a free tour of the local beer factory which is so popular they advise booking a month in advance, however it doesn't seem to be in any guide book or recommended on any visitor website. This is an almost locals only treat. I booked about 3 weeks in advance and could only get a place on the 11am tour. It seemed a little early for beer, even free beer, but I had recently found out that my work permit has been granted so it seemed an apt celebration of the end of 'era'. It is only open on week days so the opportunity may not present itself again for a while.

Unlike the chocolate tour which seemed to pitch its level to a 7 year old with below average intelligence, it was non patronising, informative and interesting. We had an insufferable know-it-all on the tour who made everyone (me) want to stab him in the eye (only twice in the one week is good) but the guide handled him well and his female friend swooned around him so much that he was distracted by his own manliness and soon stopped asking irrelevant questions. The people there (only 25 at a time) all seemed to be either local or from other US states and visiting friends in the city, and when I asked a question, all the heads in the room turned to look and point at the outsider with a funny voice. Or maybe they found my voice so attractive that they wanted to see if the face matched. Maybe not.

We got to sample 5 of their beers a half pint at a time, a summer beer (OK), the trademark steam beer (quite nice), something else (hic), a porter (amazing and so so much nicer and smoother than Guinness which is the closest thing to it that I have tasted) and a sweet after dinner beer like a dessert wine, which I was surprised to find that I really liked. The tour guide turned bar man and best friend now to many, asked if anyone wanted some more of the one you liked the best. I plugged for the porter, so for people who had drank a full measure of all of the beers on offer, they had drunk 3 pints for free and it wasn't even 1pm. I had one pint of porter, one half of summer beer, and quarter pints of everything else - 2 and a quarter pints of beer. Just amazing. There was seemingly nothing in it for them - they had no beer to sell but it must be worth it for them. I plan to buy myself some Porter and some sweet Old Foghorn before the month is out and I would urge anyone to take the tour. In short, the power of word of mouth advertising executed extraordinarily well.

Lombard Street - renowned for being the crookedest street in the city. For a start, this is a lie. The real crookedest street is in Potrero Hill, which is a suburb south of the city. I had been before and was distinctly unimpressed, and this time Holly was too. It is a street which they have put curves in the road to make it less steep, and then planted flowers. People like to drive down it. People like to take pictures of it. I pity the people who live on it, but not too much as their houses are gorgeous.

Sausalito - described by the tourist website as "a charming waterfront community that lies across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. Because of its Mediterranean flair and breathtaking views, it is often compared to the French Riviera" perhaps by people who have never been to France, but have seen Bergerac and got confused. The ferry across was absolutely lovely and provided wonderful views of the bridges and city, and on the way back we even got to see the sunset over the bridge, and a real close up of Alcatraz. It was a much cheaper alternative to the many tourist cruises on offer and you got to stop off for an ice cream.

A nice place for something different and I can see why it appeals to people, but I found it was very twee, full of art galleries but not much else, and after an hour you have exhausted everything there, and most of that time is spent picking your ice cream flavour. We were determined to give it the benefit of the doubt though and set off to see everything that the map (from the most beautiful, oldest, wrinkliest, cutest, smiliest woman in a tourist booth I had ever seen in my life^) said that it had to offer. We trekked across the town away from the main drag to the place the map called 'Beach'. When we got there, we understood why no one had taken the trouble to name it. In fact, the use of the word beach was laughable. I used to have a bigger sand pit when I was a child. We sat on the bench provided for the masses of visitors they must get and watched an old woman play with a dog, until we had had our fill, and headed back for the excitement of the main town where a man had put a wig on his dog and sang terrible songs for money.


^ apart from that time I did a coach tour of cute and happy old woman in tourist booths.

Gratis

They say there is no such thing as a free lunch, and 'you don't get something for nothing' but they (again) are wrong. I have had many free lunches, others may have called them leftovers, but to greedy bored office workers, a not quite curly yet sandwich can be the highlight of the afternoon. But that was my old life.

This week alone without even trying, I have had the following freebies; food (samples from the Farmer's Market, a bag of popcorn to go with our free film showing, chocolate samples, pumpkin cake), beer (a brewery tour which gave out 3 free American pints*, and 2 bottles with the free film), an outdoor film (this one will come as no surprise, see food and beer), hot chocolate, eye cream and an insult. My visitor, Holly, got a free makeover and Mike got a free cupcake and 2 badges. I was also offered a make over, twice,** and some cider which I declined. I have not included things like free refills, or products or anything which meant spending some money first.

I was the recipient of some free advice and directions from a very well meaning and generous soul on the bus but unfortunately his directions were wrong and I chose to ignore them. I also got to see a free air show whilst soaking up the sun, and more wonderful, the most heart warming drama, played out in the arrivals lounge of San Francisco International Airport, in glorious technicolour. Whilst I waited for Holly's plane to land, I was able to watch grandparents wait expectantly for their young grandchildren, who, brimming over with exhaustion and excitement ran into their open arms; lovers with single roses reunite with their loved ones with warm embraces and a shower of kisses; and even drivers with handwritten placards waiting for strangers with a curious impatience gratefully shaking hands with relieved and weary travellers. Tears of joy fell on my ears and the beauty of the every-day exploded in front of my eyes in an unrelenting stream of wonder. I really could have stayed there all day, which is a good thing as I am there again tomorrow to meet Dan's plane and casual observers get to watch an impatient girl with her own packed lunch turn from agitated to overjoyed in the blink of an eye.


* smaller but still very well received
** it appears I am more ugly than I thought.

Barnet Fair

I have long suspected that there is something fundamentally wrong with my hair, but lately I am beginning to wonder whether it is actually evil, or at the very least, malicious.

It is wilful and stubborn and in all my long years of having my hair cut every month in some sort of attempt to show it who is boss, no one has ever managed to tame it. I would have loved the next sentence to be, 'until now', but this isn't Oprah. At the slightest provocation, like, say walking away from the mirror, my hair reverts into its usual joke; the nun. It lies down flat and refuses to play. One of its other jokes, although I haven't seen this one for a while, is to turn my hair into something so bouffant, if you look quickly, I look like Melvyn Bragg. My hair (as is my genetic predisposition) grows very fast, and I have loads and loads of it. Masses of the stuff, and every inch is ill tempered and malevolent. It chose to turn itself grey when I was sixteen, and refuses to be dyed unless it can turn random patches bright red, even if I am dying it brown.

Normally, I laugh in its face and get on with it, but I have begun to notice lately that my hair is forcing my poor unsuspecting hairdressers to cut themselves. It was only when the last two haircuts resulted in bloodshed that I remembered this actually happens with alarming regularity. Not only do these people get injured, I swear that as soon as one hair is cut, it grows back immediately. Today I turned a lovely smiley girl into an exhausted, perplexed, shadow of her former self. She just couldn't understand why it still looked exactly the same. The time before last, from start to finish, my 'trim' took two and a half hours. The hairdresser had much more stamina and refused to give up, despite the fact that all I cared about at this stage was my lunch. My hair took it upon itself to grow back into the same mess a mere week later.

On the way back from the hairdresser this afternoon, a man selling the Big Issue equivalent (Street Sheet I think it is called) told me that I had pretty hair. I said thank you, then he said, awkwardly now, thinking that he may well have offended me 'well all of you is pretty too'. I stopped and laughed out loud in the street like Brian Blessed and continued on my journey without pausing to look back. I think my hair is planning something, and I don't want anyone else to get hurt.

A Woman of My Word

As promised, a tale from the other side - or less dramatically, Mike's version of the same weekend as a fully fledged participant. Please note (interest or ambivalence optional) how it varies wildly from my own account, is much shorter, has far fewer bracketed asides, and includes a link to a strange photo which Mike seems to dominate. I took a photo of the view of the city from the top of the park which was pretty spectacular and managed to get a shot of my bag, as viewed from above. So that's pretty much the same.

I'll leave it to you to decide who had a better time, not that everything is a competition to me.

Opposites Attract

I already know what my resolution for 2009 will be - practice in the art of succinctness.

Sunday's geeky event was a book reading by author Neil Gaiman. The tickets included a copy of his new book and if they hadn't been so expensive, I would have gone too. As it was, I waited in the queue with Mike, (an event in itself as we attracted a girl bemused by the whole idea, and an old man who proudly declared that he hadn't read a book for a decade), until the last possible minute, then left him, arranging to meet at the bottom of the cherry blossom steps from 4.30pm onwards. As it turned out, it was more like 5pm. It seems life before mobile phones was more romantic and involved much more waiting around, but we get to re-live those days now. Lucky us.

While Mike was away being read to by a talented man, and presumably given some milk and a biscuit and having to cross his legs and sit up straight, I did some further exploring of Japan town. I was impressed with this peaceful part of the city the first time, but this time there was a Fall Festival on and the area was transformed into a buzzing bazaar which still managed to maintain its serenity. This seemed to be the equivalent of a summer fete in a village or school. There were scouts selling popcorn (yes, I thought it was odd too) and stalls where you got to throw things to win prizes, raffle tickets, and someone on a microphone boring people to tears. There were also people walking around in kimonos and their favourite Pokemon character. The highlight of the bits and pieces I saw while walking through the shops, was the community dance, where everyone from the tiniest old lady in traditional dress and fan to spotty teenager in jeans joined in with the most eloquent dance. There was also a tramp dancing, sandwiched in between two women in beautiful colourful outfits, and his movements, although not as precise and elegant as others perhaps, managed to produce a lump in my throat. Morris Dancing paled into insignificance.

I also went into the local Japanese supermarket and played 'guess the product' with myself, ummed and arred about whether to get some eels, or the umeboshi plums which I have never seen sold anywhere else but have been keen to try, but decided as we had already sampled some sushi and very cheesy deeply-savoury cheesecake, and tea tree and white chocolate flavoured manju (which we had to take home and freeze to make the texture edible to our western palates), I decided against it. There is always next time.

Notes from the Outside

We had a very eventful weekend, in which Mike spent participating, and I spent time not taking part. A good time was had by all. It was meant to be a 'Mike' weekend as my friend comes to visit on Wednesday and there were lots of geeky activities happening for him to expend his energy on.

The first was on Saturday in the form of an MP3 experiment. The details are all in the link, but basically this involved wearing a T shirt in either red, yellow, blue or green, downloading (but not listening to in advance) an MP3 track, and coming armed with an umbrella and un-inflated balloon, at a set time and place. The time was 2pm sharp (watches were synchronised, black and white spy film style) and the place was Mission Dolores Park.

I don't like organised activities much, particularly secret ones. What can I say? I'm cynical and mistrustful. This is Mike's idea of Saturday afternoon utopia, so we set off, and Mike had even managed to bring some friends. Yep, that's right, we actually spent some time with other people this weekend - frankly miraculous. I had listened to the first few minutes of the track and after getting over the grating, irritatingly slow voice; I made it to instructions involving stranger and tree hugging, thumb wars, and waving to strangers and knew that my worse suspicions had been realised. I decided instead to play sociologist (I've even have some training in the field. Impressed? Don't be) and watch and record the reactions of the unsuspecting park goers, who had thought they were taking their dog for a walk, or their children to the play area, but instead had stumbled upon a large group of primary coloured clad lunatics.

It felt a little bit play school to me. I have heard of MP3 experiments which involve turning up at a busy train stations and all stopping and remaining absolutely still at exactly the same time. That sounds cool, but elaborate hokey cokey gets a bit dull, even to the trained watcher. Mike plans to write up details on his blog what the experiment entailed and his views etc, which I will post a link to, but I have the luxury of unemployment which means I can post now.

My personal highlights included when told to point to the Golden Gate Bridge and other local landmarks Mike getting it exactly wrong and then, when noticing where everyone else was pointing quickly doing an about turn and confidently pointing in the correct direction, as if he had known all along. Also when playing thumb wars with his random stranger, who he took ages to find, although too far away to see his facial expression, I knew he had lost as his whole body looked perplexed. He later claimed that his opponent had extraordinarily large thumbs, which of course must be true.

The reactions of the non participants were mixed, but for a group of young boys playing 5 a side right next to the crowd of activity, literally anything could have happened and all they would be able to recall would be the details of the match. One woman who happened to be walking through the park looked frankly unimpressed and dismissed it out of hand as people trying to make a human Rubik's Cube. Lots of people stopped to watch, semi curious. It was better than naval gazing anyway. It could possibly have been the helicopter which endlessly and noisily circled the park, presumably filming, which attracted their attention in the first place though. Unless I had come prepared with a well written and non-leading questionnaire and a clip board to make myself look official, we will never know for sure.

I am especially rambling today, and I am still on Saturday. OK - the rest I will right in short hand. I met a nice Texan who had explored lots of the UK and pronounced Bath and Edinburgh hilariously. I managed not to laugh. I drew a chart depicting the strength of crowd reaction to the experiment over time on a napkin, which one of our companions, Ed, took a picture of. I like my work to be appreciated. I managed to then lose it after I promised I would upload it to the blog. I seem to remember it was rubbish though and had badly proportioned stick people and unrealistic umbrella pictures.

My best part of the day though was being fortunate enough to witness one event (apart from going for ice cream - in a different place as the queue was too long where we had wanted to go, so we opted for some Belgian beer and chips, the next best thing surely, in a place which taught German in the toilets. Nice touch. The ice cream story is for another time I think - this is getting confusing now.)

The event involved a loud and barefoot transvestite of advancing age and baring more than a passing resemblance to Doc from Back to the Future, especially if Doc had ever worn a red party dress with a fake bra stuffed with socks. He made her way up the hill in the park loudly shouting obscene stories about his dog to anyone unfortunate enough to be in earshot while she wheeled a home made wooden cart full of what must have been bricks behind him*. She took such a long time to go such a very short distance that a chivalrous soul who must have just entered the park and therefore missed the bowel-movingly deep-voiced obscenities, rushed to help what he must have thought was an old lady in need. His epiphany lasted a millisecond where his face flushed ever so slightly, and then he managed to rearrange it into something suitable and polite for the occasion. His wife / friend / girlfriend /companion / sworn enemy who he was keeping close / pet dressed as a human, when hearing the 'old lady's' joy expressed and instructions on the best way of cart pulling, who had the benefit of being behind and out of sight, found the whole thing rather amusing and struggled to retain her mirth from falling out of her mouth and into the ether.


* I realise this sentence is grammatically very dubious but I am playing safe with gender allocation. I would be genuinely grateful if anyone could give me any advice.

A long time to get to a point and then some chat about sandwiches and rain, probably brought on by too much wine

You know those evenings when you have partaken in some black bean and rice enchiladas (they sound horrible but let me assure you, they rocked) and delicious local wine from a tetrapak, when ideas come upon you, which at the time bridge all the gaps in your life and the world, and yet in the morning can be hastily dismissed, if even remembered. It's a munchie-induced right the world, or get rich quick, or indeed, come up with the best sandwich filling.

I've had some of my best debates at times like these, and whilst I haven't been moved to navigate my way across a country with a kitchen appliance, or try to find my namesake 54 times over, sometimes the soul of the idea flutters around me biding its time.

All this is very nice, but what I wanted to say is this. Despite the fact that we invented the sandwich, and are pretty much known for it across the world, the US has raised us two and matched us two (this may or may not be a gambling phrase but it sounds about right to me). I believe that it is part of the constitution which says that soggy, pathetic, bland and dubiously filled with a limp lettuce afterthought, sandwiches are just not allowed. I haven't found one yet; but I find myself still looking for a good sandwich which isn't the same price as a week's rent in the UK. One thing which we will take back home with us is the art of a good sandwich. They pile them high and stuff them with crunchy and squidge in correct proportions on good hardy bread (well hardy anyway, I'm worried I am getting use to the sugar overload) and use mustards and pickles and sauerkraut and things which I really don't like, but which raise the piquancy of these sandwiches to levels hitherto unexplored.

By the way, it's raining. It was promised but I didn't expect it and was out in my shirtsleeves all day, but now, its quarter past eleven and the smell of the air has changed. The rain is pouring continuously and soaking everything in its path, and despite the fact that everything we have planned for the weekend is outdoors, it feels wonderful. I should have expected it of course; today was the day that our windows finally got cleaned. As predicted ( I really could write this life stuff) there were big dirty marks left all over, but now, the rain will wash them all away, and I really could not be happier.

'Happy Hour'

I fear I spoke too soon. I sit here listening to someone with absolutely no talent (but worse, no shame) belt out karaoke classics. He isn't an amateur, that would be more-or-less OK. This man has been paid to do this, presumably anyway. It's part two of the Block Party. I have another hour of this to endure.

There are happy hour specials in the 'wine bar' but I am afraid that the price is too high for me. Tap water is very underrated, particularly when it can be enjoyed in private, albeit in a stifling apartment with the windows firmly closed.

The Devilish Aubergine and the Cake of Doom

I admit I have been a bit mean about some of the policies of the place I now reside and the people who enforce them. It's time to redress the balance today on this first day of October (by the way there is now exactly two months for you to start planning my 30th birthday gift) as today is the day of the Block Party, and wait for it, I'm impressed.

The Block Party is a celebration of the first anniversary of the opening of the retail space here. I'm sure I have mentioned before how limited that is, but obviously a cause for celebration for some. I am pleased as a Bank of America ATM has opened here. I bank with Bank of America and all the banks here charge you if you dare to take money out of another bank's cash machine. In fact, your bank charges you, and the other bank does too, usually $2 each. That's $4 just for taking out some cash. As you can imagine, I refuse to pay that. I would rather walk that extra mile to get to my nearest ATM, so imagine my joy, now I can get cash out whenever I want (so easy to please you see, so there is no need to overly worry about my birthday gift...)

However, I haven't quite worked out how to get into the building which houses the ATM, and the person who I squeezed in after even though she tried desperately to break my arm in the door, wasn't very pleased to have to share her precious ATM moment with a 'devilish aubergine' (Copyrighted to MC 01/10/08.)* Nothing was going to deter me though and it wouldn't be the first time that I had to use my sharp elbows as weapons.

So, the Block Party. The usual quiet waste land just outside the 3 shops (Subway, Peasant Pies, and a cafe-cum-wine bar) had been transformed with music, balloons, stalls, and people! Yippee. There were queues coming out of the door of the food shops, owing to the special offers, of which, of course, I partook. $2 for a peasant pie? Even with the exchange rate as it is, that is still only £1.13. I bought 4, not to eat, but to keep for later on in the week. People were buying them to eat then and there, the fools. I wanted to buy more but the shame cut me down. I am thinking though if I change tops, I can go back and buy however many are left.... we'll see.

I can get a pie any day though, the stalls were the real draw. Honey, Fruit, Veg, Bread, Cakes, all winking at me in the 29 degree heat. Today was pay day but it is meant to last the entire month so I settled on a Zucchini Almond Raisin loaf, spending what I had saved on the pies and then some. It weighs more than a brick so I would say it is worth the money. We have a visitor a week today so I thought it might be nice to have some tea and cake when she arrives. I asked the seller, who looked like a more fervent member of the WI whether it was freezable. She stated, loudly, 'honey, yes it is, if you can freeze it that is.' I raised an eyebrow arranging my face in the international quizzical look, wondering whether that was a reference to my extra few stones, mentally sharpening my tongue, then realising this is her sales pitch. I know that I am going to buy the cake, or bread as it is called, but she doesn't yet have the dollars in her grubby little paws (I actually hope they weren't grubby, and hands and workspace were adequately sanitised). The pitch continues, 'because it tastes so good, I doubt it will get to the freezer.'

She carried on with some tale of how she wanted to freeze a cake once but ended up eating it all. She means this to be the best advert, but of course it isn't. I hope there isn't crack in this cake, as I fully intend it to get to the freezer, and after what happened last time, well.. I paid the money, and she instantly moved to someone else. I had felt so special too. Then I struggled to carry my brick back to the flat. I actually had to stop halfway in the twenty steps to the door to adjust my grip.

I think I have actually put myself off this cake now having made it sound so unappetising; made with the unwashed hands of a charlatan, extra dense to break all your teeth, and full of crack. One slice or two Holly?


* I cannot take the credit for this wonderful turn of phrase - it is Mike's. I am dressed from head to toe in purple like a priest at Easter, clashing violently with my pink flip flops. Nice.

Mashed, Roasted, Chipped, Sauteed, Baked, Boiled, Fried, Grilled, and, er, Saladified...

I think I love potatoes more than I love chocolate. It matters not in which format they have been prepared, although for the record, mashed, roasted and baked are my favourite. We don't eat many potatoes though, not really. Maybe once a fortnight? Sometimes more, sometimes less. When I need a potato fix though, it is all consuming and difficult to satiate.

Last week, I really fancied some mash. I would have eaten it on its own, only Mike doesn't think that is dinner so I roasted some spicy, limey chicken thighs and made creamy onion mash and peas. Comfort food with some spice marinade thrown in for these modern times. It was delightful, every forkful was perfection and seemed to satisfy some deep hidden me. As always happens, we have now had some form of potato every night since. It will pass and we will go back to normal soon. Just one more night and whatever has been awoken will be restful once more.

So, the point. As I was peeling potatoes for the mash, I read the label on the bag. They were called Yukon Gold, and the labeller (at no point are they named - is it Yukon, or is that the variety, who can say? Well, me actually, as I googled it, Yukon is the variety) boldly declares they fall into the "5 a day for better health" camp. I thought that fact that a potato was not included in the 5 a day fruit and vegetable list had been known since around the time of the 'you can't get AIDS from a toilet seat public information campaign'* but perhaps not. I read on.

"Yukon Potatoes have a sweet buttery taste that compliments meats, poultry, or seafood. Preparation can be quick and easy by simply boiling, dicing, and adding olive oil and your favorite seasonings.
With their natural buttery taste they make a terrific mashed potato. Try them French Fried with skins on - your kids will love 'em. You can find various recipes on the internet".

I know what you're thinking - nice use of the oxford comma, so why did you go and spoil it all with the shortened 'them'?

Was this written by, or for, someone with a chronically short attention span? Please don't insult me, potato label, by lying about your health benefits and not even telling me how much vitamin C, fibre and complex carbohydrate, and possibly some other things you contain, and then coyly dismissing your many and varied uses by paying lip service to some chips and a bit of mash and some weird oily boiled little number, and then really putting the boot in by shooing me away to the deep dark Internet, of all places, to research recipes on my own, without any direction at all. After 3 months here, I have now grown use to more information about the stuff I purchase than I can shake a stick at, and frankly I feel weak with the lack of knowledge.

I have said my piece now and that is all.


* the most powerful campaign of my childhood, along with Charley says don't talk to strangers. As an aside, although I am aware that there is not much point to move aside from, while I was researching this blog snippet, (yes reader, for your delectation, I do research this stuff.. In fact only yesterday I resisted the urge to boldly state that Walt Disney was a fascist as some evidence claimed he was a well known fascist sympathiser and some, said it was all poppycock, plus Mike told me that if I got sued, he would promptly divorce me so that they couldn't get any of his money) I found an interesting article on toilet seat hovering, which talks about US public toilets, which I agree are bewildering and sometimes you have to be quick as the high tech-ness of it all means as well as flushing for you and dispensing soap and paper towels touchlessly, they practically extract your bodily fluids for you as well. Too crude? Apparently the British are crude, as well as being "so funny. You are all so funny". I have digressed so very badly now and possibly lost you all in the process. It's a short story, but in my hands, we would be here all night.

And while I am on the subject

of chocolate of course, a while ago I came across a cool blog which reviews chocolate. It's called Chocablog and I get the posts delivered to my in-box every day. It is a form of self torture in a sense as they review all sorts of things that I cannot possibly lay my hands on, but they also review Australian and American confectionery, so I thought that I may discover something worth looking into over here.

I call your attention though to the recent review of Hershey's Milk Chocolate as I really couldn't put it better myself. What really peeked my interest though was the vehemence in some of the pro-Hershey comments which some people left. It seems like a very divisive subject, some taking hatred of Hershey's as synonymous with hatred of Americans themselves.

At the Scharffen Berger factory tour (the tour which keeps on giving, 3 blog posts and counting), where we were the only non-Americans, when the guide revealed that in fact, Hershey had bought the Scharffen Berger company a couple of years ago, the panto-like boos and hisses rippled through the room together with the obvious shock, and not a little abhorrence. That could have just been my own feelings coming out though.

Mike is not an Oompa Loompa. I repeat, Mike is not an Oompa Loompa.

Mike seemed to think that the title of my last post, implied that he was, or was like, an Ooompa Loompa. As he stands at 6' 1 3/4 inches tall, the thought was no where near my mind. To appease his clearly fragile ego, I have posted a shameful photo of me in my hair net at the Chocolate Factory. I am not ashamed of the net, more the strange thing my lips and teeth have done, and my farmers-wife rosy-cheeks courtesy of the Californian sun.

In fact, I am so unashamed of my hair net, I brought it home, plus an extra one which I slipped in my bag discreetly. You never know when they may come in handy, and it pays to be prepared for all eventualities.

Augusta Gloop and her Oompa Loompa

On Saturday, we intended to go to the opening of the newly renovated California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park.

We knew it would be busy and we would have to get there early to queue, so instead of having a nice cup of cocoa and an early night on Friday, we stayed up late with a bottle of wine, singing terrible songs, karaoke style via Boogie on the Wii. You see, we challenged ourselves to sing all the songs, in turn. OK, it happened, let's speak of it no further. But, so you know, I am not ashamed.

Needless to say, we woke up late and after a seemingly endless faff of a morning, some of which involving having to get the right change for the Muni, and waiting for said Muni for an inordinate amount of time, then having to get the bus part of the way, by the time we got there (a shocking 3pm; we had to stop for lunch too, and make a slight detour via a bookshop in Haight and then get a bit lost) they weren't letting anyone else in. I found out today that they actually stopped letting people in at 1pm for a 9pm closing time. It gives you some idea of how many people showed up.

So, a day wasted* chasing a freebie later, we still had the free chocolate factory tour to look forward to. This time I wasn't disappointed. Again, we had decided to make a slight detour (1.5 mile walk) to a particular shop to look for an ice cream scoop. It always sounds so very very stupid in retrospect these wonderful ideas we have, but I assure you, it was well worth it, and it was just unfortunate that the shop had nothing even remotely ice cream scoopy inside.

We didn't have the change for the bus so we had to then walk another mile or so to the factory. Without a map of Berkeley, I had drawn something resembling directions on a piece of scrap paper. Miraculously they worked moreorless and we reached a point where we could begin to just follow our noses to get there. The sickly sweet chocolate aromas were not as bad as they are in Bournville (just outside Birmingham, UK) but they are very off putting to someone who has come all the way just to taste some chocolate. We were a tad early so got to start sampling in the cafe, in the form of a hot chocolate and a cold chocolate (mine was nicer, which I made a note of in our special food competition book**.)

The tour began by stepping outside to admire the brickwork of the factory. I will admit at this stage I was worried. The guide was an all-American guy who obviously played golf with the same friends every weekend and was well fed by his adoring wife. His terrible jokes began to grate before he even spoke and the other people on the tour terrified and mystified me. They guffawed at every joke, clapped people in union, but in seemingly random patterns, asked truly mind-blowingly stupid questions, and cooed over the chocolate samples. The chocolate was great, if you like a bitter sour after taste, an oily residue on your tongue and having to resist the urge to gag after eating it. It was though the best chocolate we have tasted so far.

I was impressed with the tour over all. It may have been because you got to sit down for 45 minutes and eat chocolate for free (however grim) and my feet were tired from walking. It was a better experience than Bournville (sorry Cadbury's) and I got to see American tourists in America which was a fascinating experience. The propaganda, sorry PR, of these places always intrigues me too and I say they have a good thing going on.

We decided not to walk back the way we came because it was a long journey and that if we walked in a random direction of my choosing, we would eventually reach a station to take us back to San Francisco. Mike was grumbling that if we could hideously lost that it would be all my fault, we didn't have a map, we would have to spend money on a cab, yadda yadda yadda... Since I have heard it all before, and trust wholeheartedly in my luck, I was undeterred. I asked a man on a bike where the nearest station was when we reached a main cross-roads, he sucked his teeth like a plumber and pointed but said it was a long walk. One cyclists long walk, is another's reasonable distance, so we walked. It was only a mile and my gamble had paid off - phew! We had passed through North Berkeley to the tip of South Berkeley without ever seeing the town centre. I liked the place. It can be a bit rough around the edges, but looks like 'proper' America - the America from the a childhood of TV; the Wonder Years, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Simpsons, Little House on the Prairie, well, not quite the last one.

We got back into the city, and realised that we had no money for the Muni home. A quick trip to the cash machine revealed that we actually had no money full stop (overdrafts in US are not a option at least on our account) so we had to walk home. It was 2.5 miles, making our total for the day 6.5 miles, at least according to Google maps. According to my feet, it was more like 8. All for a freebie. Still, it was a lovely weekend.


* this isn't strictly true, we visited a lovely bookshop and had a nice walk in the sunny park. On the way back, which also contained fraught, hot, packed and slow public transport, we made a detour to get to a different line and passed 4 children selling home made pink lemonade for a dollar. It was neon pink and looked terrifying but they were so disappointed when we declined, I almost wanted to double back and buy some until I was reminded by the handy microbiologist with me that it may well be my last neon drink. Still, one for my book of firsts which grows by the day.

** this does not actually exist; however you would be forgiven for thinking it did if you had ever had the pleasure of sharing a meal with myself and my husband. Mike holds his cards to his chest until the very last minute before revealing what he intends to eat, and then sometimes, makes a quick change when actually ordering, just to confound me. It is a rule that we cannot order the same thing, unless there are special circumstances, and after a tasting of our own meal, then a tasting of each others, one of us proclaims, toddler-like, "I win". Often, we both proclaim it, and say the other is wrong. I ,of course, can be gracious, when Mike's meal is better and agree with him, that he has indeed 'won' but alas, this maturity isn't often shared ;)

Wet Peril and Drizzle Desires

Just so my last post wouldn't go off-point (because that isn't like me at all) I felt that the plight of my poor dirty windows needed a small post all to itself.

About a week ago, I caught my first glimpse of the elusive window washers working on the building opposite. My initial impression was that they would be like sitcom stars without the canned laughter and film crews. I couldn't have been more wrong - this is America, remember.

I watched them with growing panic as I got the measure of the work. There are two men probably no more than 30; one of whom wears a rather fetching pillowcase on his head to avoid the harsh sun. The time is taken hauling their death trap trolley thing (if anyone knows what it is actually called, I would be grateful to know) up and down the side of the buildings. When they are actually in place for the cleaning, it takes very little time. They simply use a long squeegee to wipe on some water (which I am sure was clean at the top of the building, but the poor people on the lower floors just get the dirt smeared around) then another to wipe off. The terrifying bit is that they are at the mercy of the wind at all times and they have to rock simultaneously to get near enough to the window in the first place to give it that rudimentary wipe. Then one of the men practically gets out of the rocking cart to grab hold of the window ledge or something equally as perilous. Then they rocket through.

They can scale and clean 5 flights in about half an hour but because of the to-ing and fro-ing getting their metal cage into place, they actually don't achieve that much in a day. So, whilst I want cleaner windows, I also want these men to return safely to their stable ground floor homes in the evening. I have no issue with heights, but I found that I couldn't watch them without a knot forming in my stomach.

Running the risk of that old adage to be careful of what you wish for, what we need is a nice spot of rain. The kind that makes you want to go out in it to run in the street and get soaked to the skin and have to de-robe at the door. The kind of summer rain after a long period of drought that makes the grass smell wonderful and the pavements glisten and even the ugliest grey building look beautiful; you know, like in England. Not like Liverpool rain though, not the dreary hard incessant rain that never stops, makes everything dark and makes you feel like the Dementors are just around the corner, and that keeps your coat and shoes permanently damp despite the stuffing of newspapers and a night on the radiator.

I imagine people in the UK cannot understand this strange desire of mine and maybe even feel slightly resentful, and frankly before now I would have struggled, but after living in Liverpool for 3 years, 3 months without rain just doesn't feel normal.

No Photos and a Cut Finger

I have experienced a wealth of emotions today, but overall I am feeling splendiferous.

I have a bit of a cold coming and a sore throat which is making me feel nauseous. I watched an old lady fall over while I was on the bus and felt bad as I couldn't get off to help her out. I watched the window cleaners finally make an appearance at my building, only to find out that they will be circling the block anti-clockwise, which means that my windows will be cleaned last. I met an extraordinary man on the shuttle with enormous shoes and crazy big shades to cover normal glasses, who, when he asked me the time, could not understand me when I said that it was about ten past two. He understood two-o-seven though so I knew it wasn't my accent that threw him.

But, all of this meant nothing when I received the news; my younger brother 'passed' his embassy interview and is coming to America. More specifically, Santa Cruz, California, which is about 60 miles away. The best neighbour I could hope for.

To celebrate, I have booked a free tour of the Scharffen Berger chocolate factory for Sunday. It's not Cadbury's but it might be nice, and you get to wear a deli-counter net hat which we didn't get to do at the Bournville factory...

Updates

We now have clean floors and a vacuum cleaner held together by sticky tape which cost us $10, an afternoon, a stone of sweat and some further development of calf muscle. Quite a bargain, and we got to get lost in a scary neighbourhood where people were joyriding and staring at us out of windows. The posters failed utterly in all but making scrap paper.

We still have dirty windows but I have actually spotted some cleaning action on other buildings. I am confident that we will sparkle in time for Christmas.

We are in the throes of our first family visit, hence my lack of blogging this week. It has been a great opportunity to see how much we have adjusted so far with the aid of fresh eyes, and also to reaffirm how very very lucky we are to live in this city. It is easy to get bogged down with the daily difficulties, but at the same time, I have felt the kind of pride I experienced Liverpudlians exhibit for their hometown. It doesn't matter so much over here where you were born; San Francisco is full to the brim of people who hail from somewhere else. The only trouble is there isn't enough time on any visitors itinerary to show them even the briefest glimpse of everything there is to offer.

My arm has been twisted to plug a charitable game, so here goes. I have just signed up to Operation: Sleeper Cell, a fundraising initiative for Cancer Research UK. You get to play games for a good cause, which can't be bad. Tell your friends. Plug over.

I may well do a full review at some point in the future but more San Francisco highlights to add to my list are; the Exploratorium ( a science museum for kids, and I liked it - it must be amazing); the Japanese Tea Garden, a haven of peace and tea; and Cliff House, an art deco styled restaurant and tea room nestled on the edge of a cliff by Ocean Beach looking out over the sea. I like these places irrespective of the fact that two involve tea explicitly, but I think tea is served in the Exploratorium too. You will have to buy my forthcoming book, 'A Nice Cup of Tea, San Francisco Style' to find out more. It will be available in all good bookshops.

Marin Headlands

It is about time I uploaded a photo. So, this is a shot of the Marin Headlands. Unfortunately, you can't see San Francisco from here as there is a bit of land in the way. You will just have to trust me that it is just round that corner.

Wishing for Clean Floors

Apart from the furniture we acquired via Ikea (boo, hiss) we have managed to get the majority of our flat together through ads people have placed in the lifts of the buildings we live in. Like Craigslist, it is cut and thrust and you have to be quick. When we first moved in there was many an ad, most of which we didn't respond quickly enough to. Now the ads seem to have dried up.

We were badly let down by someone in our 'community'. I would like to present you with the sorry tale, in order to give the context to my latest mission.

At the beginning of August, I saw an advert in the lift for many wondrous things, including a TV and a vacuum cleaner. I raced home and emailed to see if they were both still available. Joy of joys, they were, but pain of impatience, the owners were not moving out until the end of August. Still, we could last a few more weeks without it. A date was set for collection. Then, a couple of days before I received an email from the sellers to say that the TV was ready for collection - this tale is documented elsewhere on this blog. At the time, they said that they needed the vacuum cleaner in order to clean up before they left - fair enough - and we made plans to collect it in a few days.

A few days came and I eagerly emailed to arrange a time to collect (never have I been so excited and then so bitterly disappointed about an electrical device). No response. Never mind, we knew where they lived - aha hahahahahaahah - so we went round.

The sellers were a man and a woman - because I am still sore about it all, I am going to break my usual code and name and shame - Sae and Julio. Julio was, I think, Spanish and Sae was Japanese. She didn't speak a lot of English. I'm telling you this to explain what happened. Julio was still at work when we arrived and Sae stood standing in moving-detritus (clearly this flat had not been hoovered). I said we were there to pick up the vacuum cleaner. There was evidently a problem, but Sae was unable to explain what it was so she asked whether she could get her husband to email me. I said OK and left.

The next day, I hadn't had Julio's profuse apologies, or in fact any word at all, so I emailed to check if everything was still going ahead with the sale. It clearly wasn't but I still had hope. I didn't get a response.

Sae and Julio have now moved out and someone else has the vacuum cleaner which was so rightfully ours. This is supposition of course. I mean, it could have broken and they decided that they could not in good faith sell it after all. There could have been a genuine mistake and they sold it to someone else, due to poor communication. There are many possibilities, but not responding to my ultra polite email is rude, and therefore bad form in my book. As the colour of the carpet becomes more and more indistinguishable by the day, I have decided to take action.

My daily trail of Craigslist is proving fruitless - either they have sold out before I email, or I do not get a response at all. So today I set up a new email address with a clean floors theme, made some posters and have stuck them in prominent places in every building. Now, they can come to me.

Do I think it will work? Or do I think the carpet situation will get so bad that we will have to go out an spend full price on a hoover (only to find the day after that the second hand vacuum cleaner market is swamped.) I'll leave that for you to decide.