Sean couldn't stop singing this song, which wouldn't have been so bad, but he only knew the first lyric. Anyhow, we literally went to Memphis to get to San Francisco, which sounds like a cute saying for doing something ass-backwards, but it was an unfortunate reality in our case. We enjoyed Bloody Marys and Elvis impersonators in our Tennessee lay-over, and we arrived in San Francisco late that night. We caught the BART to The Good Hotel in SOMA where the concierge was less than helpful, reading online comics as a Finnish tourist needed directions to a "service station". We headed to the Mission district to find a night cap, and proceeded to drink at the first establishment where PBR seemed prominent.
Since we only had reservations for one night, the next morning we packed our sacks and headed north toward the bay. Straight down Market Street, we ended at the port and hopped a ferry to Sausalito where we dined on expensive sea fare and porters. The rest of the day was a hot blur: San Fran stayed a consistent 80-something (sometimes hotter) and we were in-and-out of food comas, beer-highs, train stations, and sweat-spells. Uncle Dan rescued us (and our poor backs) and gave a grand tour before taking us to San Juan Bautista.
We visited the mission (from Hitchcock's Vertigo), avoided the feral chickens that roam the streets, and took Highway-1 as much as possible. The vacation ended in Monterey with lots of tequila, sailing, and ruck sacks much heavier than when we started; Somehow we acquired a 10-lb bag of Masa Harina, wet. It was beautiful and there's so much more to say. California, I can never get enough.
