San Francisco Getaway

Musings on a  trip to San Francisco in the fall of 2010

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 Thursday at noon. Claudette and I ate at Chez Panisse in Berkley. I made reservations three weeks earlier, lunch was worth the wait. White linen napkins on the table. Friendly staff. Excellent food.

 

Claudette was impressed. I had wanted to impress her. We were on a romantic getaway weekend to San Francisco and the Bay Area. I wore a different hat today, not the driven, multi tasking contractor but instead the middle aged husband, equal partner in the ‘next’ phase of our marriage. (after the child is grown and out of the house) But it was taking time and adjustment for us to get there.

 

Decisions made for desert. The huckleberry and apple tart crust was crisp and flaky, just right with the tart sweetness of the fruit. Coffee-chocolate almond ice cream with bittersweet chocolate sauce came for Claudette. She tasted it, cupped the bowl closer and lowered her eyes.

 

“If my husband wants any of my desert, I may leave him.” she told Anton, our waiter.

 

“Pass it here.” I said.

 

She did.

 

I tasted. Cold and sweet, coffee flavor on my tongue then bittersweet chocolate coming over the top of the cold sweetness. Just right. I held the bowl close and then pushed back across the table. Laughter. And more banter. And the ice between us broken after the stress of getting up at five am, driving to the airport, flying, renting a car, etc.

 

On the way out of the restaurant, hand in hand, relaxed and content, I exclaimed, “When was the last time I sat down to a two hour meal and wasn’t impatient to get out of there after forty five minutes!”

　

Friday. Oysters on the half shell at Drakes Bay, north of San Francisco. One dozen between us, a lemon and hot sauce on the table. Salty and sublime. The ocean in a shell.

 

Drakes Bay lies within the Point Reyes National Seashore. We spent the night at a hostel within the Park boundaries, lulled to sleep by rain on the roof. The hills run down to the sea, finger canyons lead to rocky coves. Lovesick elephant seals cavorted on the beach, trumpeting loudly through their fleshy noses.

 

We walked out to the Point Reyes Lighthouse, set on a rocky promontory jutting out into the Pacific Ocean. Waves lined up parallel to the shore, breaking offshore, their tops whipped back by the wind and casting a mane of mist over the surf.

 

I ate trail mix, a handful at a time, picking the wasabi kernels from the mix and tossing them aside.

 

Claudette said, “Give them to me. I’ll eat them.”

 

And I did.

 

Point Reyes Lighthouse was built in 1870. Augustine-Jean Fresnel designed the lens that are named after him. The lens and brass mechanism that are the inner workings of the lighthouse were built in France, shipped to Boston for inspection, repacked and shipped around Cape Horn, (pre Panama Canal) unloaded at Drakes Bay, hauled on wagons to the rocky promontory and finally hoisted down the side of a cliff with block and tackle to the lighthouse location. Then assembled, first lit December 1, 1870.

 

The light can be seen 24 miles out to sea. Jewel like gears and bearings turn the lens surrounding the light, (originally lit with whale blubber) creating the blinking effect. The Pont Reyes Lighthouse blinks for a one second duration every five seconds, that is it's signature. Each lighthouse has a different signature, allowing ship captains to consult their logs and determine where they are along a coastline. Many lives have been saved by the Point Reyes Lighthouse.

 

Later, walking back to the car from the lighthouse, I ate more trail mix.

 

“Are the wasabies to hot for you?” Claudette teased.

 

I tossed one on the path and stepped on it. Claudette giggled.

 

I picked out five wasabi kernels and handed them to her. She ate them.

 

“Why are you giving me grief about the wasabies?” I asked.

 

“They taste better with grief.”

 

Laughter. Then a roar from my gut. And her laughing too. A hug and a kiss. Rightness in the universe. The rubber band that exists between us, stretched too tight at times, slack at other times. Now. Just right. How so? What needs us for “right tension” so that romance and interest, independence and dependence, flourishes?

　

Saturday. De Young Museum in San Francisco. An exhibit of Post Impressionist Art, on loan from France. Gauguin. Cezanne. Rousseau. We stood in front of Starry Night Over The Rhone by Van Gogh. Thick paint on the canvas. Night time at a harbor. Reflections of stars and shore lights on the water. Parallel brush strokes that could have been done by a child’s thumb. Van Gogh must have been there at the moment, painting in a hurry with crude lighting. He knew what he was doing. The painting radiates, pulsates with color and brush strokes, almost plastic in its movement.

 

The day was gray. Clouds lowered upon our heads and we walked to the Japanese Tea Garden, close by in Golden Gate Park. An old high school friend of Claudette’s was with us for the day. We walked past one hundred year old pine trees, two feet high. Bonsai. Beautifully formed and cultivated to bring the world close in.

 

We stopped by a pond, its bottom green with moss. Green grass ran to its edge. Small green shrubs, each manicured precisely lined the opposing bank. Larger shrubs and trees behind them. Bamboo beyond them. Then larger trees and finally the pines of Golden Gate Park above them. Shades of green and layers upon layers. All designed for contemplation and intimacy. We visited and rested, sitting on the bench until our time was done.

　

Sunday. Last day. Early run at dawn along the bay under the Bay Bridge. Photographers lined up along the causeway to capture the light upon the water. The ripples on the bay lapped pink and blue black under the bridge. Pleated clouds mirrored the colors of the water.

 

Claudette and I ate at David’s Diner near Union Square. Eggs, lox and rye bread toast and tea with milk. The couple next to us passed over a spare pancake and syrup. It was her first pancake ever. She was from South Africa, he from England. Older than us. Chatty. First time in San Francisco. They had booked a bus tour of San Francisco later in the morning.

 

“What do you do?” Claudette asked.

 

“This.” he replied.

 

One hour left before a mad dash to the Oakland airport to go home. A generous hearted person at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art gave us guest passes to see the Bresson photography exhibit on the third floor.

 

Henri Cartier-Bresson traveled the world, chronicling it with his camera. In black and white. The entire floor was devoted to his work. So many gems. Photos of people, depicting character. Photos of action, frozen in space. Photos of patterns in nature, patterns between nature and people, patterns of shadow and shape. Did he see the important moments as they happened? Did he see them before they happened? Did he create the moments? I could not deny the important moments he defined, what surprised us was that there was so many of them.

 

On the plane now, headed home. A basket full of precious moments clutched between us, my wife and I. Slippery time all around us, always hard to manage. But I felt infinite possibilities before us. I squeezed Claudette’s hand and held her tight.