San Francisco Saturday
It’s been a while since my last post about my long-ago vacation with Sarah. It seems like it has been a whole month since I was happy and frolicking on the mean streets of SF. Let’s examine our memories and take a trip back to those halcyon days of yore, when men were men, and women were also men, and — wait — no — uh…
We awoke on the Saturday of our vacation possessed of a ravenous hunger, to be satisfied only by a delightful hole in the wall taco joint not a block’s walk from our hotel.
I should really make it a point to visit more taquerias here in Minneapolis. I think that we may have preferred this joint to the “Mexican” place we had visited a night or two before, where a karaoke machine fired up mid-meal and we were regaled by a variety of folks singing highly improbable hits from the 80s.
At one point in the day, Sarah took a nap with our Lo-Pan pillow.
This was the day that we visited SF MOMA, but seeing Lee Friedlander’s photos made it hard to take photos of our own. To add insult to injury, we also visited the Fraenkel Gallery, which had not only dozens of Friedlander’s works, but Diane Arbus, Garry Winograd, Nan Goldin, Richard Avedon, and a host of other photographers whose work I could barely afford if I devoted months and months of salary. Seeing their silver gelatin prints was humbling to say the least.
We did, however, stroll over to Chinatown, where we couldn’t resist photographing Mao and a huge wooden cock.
On the way back, we saw a really truly massage parlor.
We closed out the day by eating at a downtown restaurant.
The day ended with gentle sleep amidst Saturday night clamor in the alley several floors down outside our room. Sarah slept her usual dead-to-the-world slumber and I tossed restlessly, knowing that the next day would put a convertible into my itchy palms and spirit us away northward to highways that twisted along the coast and amid tumbling hills.
mmm, taquerias. Let’s!