Hilton Waikaloa Village (Nights 6-8)
For our last stop on the Big Island, Red and I agreed that we wanted to stay back over on the Kona side to be near to the airport. After looking around a little online, we settled on the Hilton Waikaloa Village, which fit our requirements exactly. It turned out to be a quite a place, a full-scale self-contained resort, a beautiful and luxurious as any place on the island (at least if you count the places you can book online).
Before we left Hilo, we toured the old downtown and then up to Rainbow Falls and down through the campus of University of Hawaii-Hilo. I particularly enjoy touring campuses as I travel, so this was a must-see. Then we headed north along the remote coast, making a detour to Akaka Falls, which allows one a splendid walking tour through bamboo groves and other rain forest trees that really make you feel like you are in Hawaii for sure.
I turned out that Red had forgotten to gas up the rental in Hilo, so along that section of coast we were scrambling on our smartphones to find a gas station. But our fears were exaggerated. We found gas without problem at a little mini-mart and continued all the way up the north part of the island, then passed over the "up country" gap past the famous Parker Ranch, where the gift shop has a great selection of items that combine the horse and Hawaii theme, if you are looking for that kind of stuff.
From there we descended quickly down the barren volcanic terrain to the Kona Coast. Our original plan had been to use the Hilton Waikaloa as a base to explore the north part of the island for the next few days, but once we checked in, it quickly became obvious that we were probably going to stay on the resort grounds the entire time, which is exactly what we did. The rental car didn't move from it's spot for the next three days.
Our room had a splendid ocean view. It was located in the "Ocean Tower," one of three separate hotel buildings on the resort complex. To reach it, we used the resort monorail, which wound slowly around the resort lagoon past several of the restaurants. One could also use the boats which followed the canal next to the monorail. Even before we reached our room, I couldn't help feeling like I was at a theme park.
For the next few days we lounged in decadence in our room with the patio doors open, letting the delicious warm air circulate through the room. Amazing it was a great place to get a lot of work done.
In the afternoons, we strolled around the grounds to one of the restaurants, forgoing to the slow-moving monorail in favor of a detour through the long open-air corridor stocked with art from all over the Pacific rim. It felt like living inside an art museum.
Overall it was a great place to do very little. We killed an hour one afternoon watching the dolphin trainers (all of them young women with pony tails) assisting the guests as they interacted with these animals in the shallow enclosed part of the lagoon. I told Red I only wanted to do that if you could stand on two dolphins at once (like this), something that didn't seem to offered as part the program.
Our experience at the resort reached a climax with the Tuesday evening luau, something I considered a must-do in Hawaii. Along with a couple hundred other guests, we were treated to an evening of roast pig and other traditional delicacies accompanied by music and dancers, in the old Tahitian and Hawaiian styles, exactly as one would expect. I told Red I felt like I was in a Brady Bunch episode.
It was a glorious experience, one I would recommend to anyone, especially to families visiting the Big Island. The only downside was that it felt like living in a bubble. After three days I was ready to see the "real Hawaii" again, even if only for an hour on our way to the airport.
In that last regard, a couple notes for the traveler (1) there are no gas stations north of the airport---if you need to fill up your rental car, you have to go almost all the way into Kona; (2) there is no mailbox in the Kona airport past the security gates, so if you want to mail your postcards from Hawaii, make sure you do it before you go through the screening.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Friday, November 29, 2013
A Lodging Guide to the Big Island (3)
Hilo Seaside Hotel (Night 5)
After two nights near the fires of Kilauea, we left the seclusion of the Ohana 5th Street and pushed onward counterclockwise. It was Sunday, a day off, and feeling adventurous, we detoured for a couple hours through Hawai'i's Puna district on the southeast coast. It's of the most secluded and remote areas of the island.
Red informed me that Puna has a long-time favorite locale of both FBI protected witnesses, as well as fugitives from the same agency. It's easy to imagine folks hiding out for years in the rain forest there. We gave the rental car a workout on the potholed dirt road that skirts the coast through the mango groves that gave way from time to time to pristine volcano beaches pounded by the direct surf.
In the afternoon we made it into Hilo, the second largest community in the entire state of Hawaii, and obviously the largest one on the Big Island. After grabbing a burger at a dive-bar we checked into the Hilo Seaside Inn, a classic motel right along the waterfront of the protected harbor that once made Hilo a center of the sugar cane trade.
Hilo still feels like a working class town, with a micro view of the social problems of Honolulu. A few minutes spent in the Long's Drug in town was enough to see the "real Hawaii."
In a way that makes it more accessible and interesting to me. As I mention to folks, the more I travel, the more I am interested in seeing human communities rather than pristine natural beauty (as awesome as the latter can be). I'd come to the Big Island curious as much to see places like Hilo as the volcanoes and the beaches.
The Hilo Seaside Hotel was somewhat in the spirit of the town. At check in, the native woman at the front desk informed the hotel had been operated by the same Hawaiian family since the mid 1950s. But it was well kept-up, despite a distinct older period feel. Thus our room was small, and with a wall air conditioning unit, but it was clean and comfortable, with a splendid view out over the hotel's koi pond and across the harbor nearby. We both felt quite relaxed lounging there with the door open.
Still it's Hilo. It's a whole different world from the tourist-oriented Caribbean-like feeling of Kona. In back of the hotel was an old corrugated metal shed in full tropical decay with junked cars. The hotel had extra security gates in the parking lot. The Sunday afternoon silence was punctuated with bikers revving their motorcycles across the street. The proud hotel owners were keeping their socks pulled up amidst a changing community around them. Like I said, all of this somehow makes me like Hilo even more.
After two nights near the fires of Kilauea, we left the seclusion of the Ohana 5th Street and pushed onward counterclockwise. It was Sunday, a day off, and feeling adventurous, we detoured for a couple hours through Hawai'i's Puna district on the southeast coast. It's of the most secluded and remote areas of the island.
Red informed me that Puna has a long-time favorite locale of both FBI protected witnesses, as well as fugitives from the same agency. It's easy to imagine folks hiding out for years in the rain forest there. We gave the rental car a workout on the potholed dirt road that skirts the coast through the mango groves that gave way from time to time to pristine volcano beaches pounded by the direct surf.
In the afternoon we made it into Hilo, the second largest community in the entire state of Hawaii, and obviously the largest one on the Big Island. After grabbing a burger at a dive-bar we checked into the Hilo Seaside Inn, a classic motel right along the waterfront of the protected harbor that once made Hilo a center of the sugar cane trade.
Hilo still feels like a working class town, with a micro view of the social problems of Honolulu. A few minutes spent in the Long's Drug in town was enough to see the "real Hawaii."
In a way that makes it more accessible and interesting to me. As I mention to folks, the more I travel, the more I am interested in seeing human communities rather than pristine natural beauty (as awesome as the latter can be). I'd come to the Big Island curious as much to see places like Hilo as the volcanoes and the beaches.
The Hilo Seaside Hotel was somewhat in the spirit of the town. At check in, the native woman at the front desk informed the hotel had been operated by the same Hawaiian family since the mid 1950s. But it was well kept-up, despite a distinct older period feel. Thus our room was small, and with a wall air conditioning unit, but it was clean and comfortable, with a splendid view out over the hotel's koi pond and across the harbor nearby. We both felt quite relaxed lounging there with the door open.
Still it's Hilo. It's a whole different world from the tourist-oriented Caribbean-like feeling of Kona. In back of the hotel was an old corrugated metal shed in full tropical decay with junked cars. The hotel had extra security gates in the parking lot. The Sunday afternoon silence was punctuated with bikers revving their motorcycles across the street. The proud hotel owners were keeping their socks pulled up amidst a changing community around them. Like I said, all of this somehow makes me like Hilo even more.
A Lodging Guide to the Big Island (2)
5th Street Ohana Bed & Breakfast (Volcano) (Nights 3-4)
Having just arrived in the islands, Red was happy to go along with my routine of spending the entire first day in a new place mostly sheltered in place in my room working. I've found that if I can do that, intensely for one day after landing or arriving, then it is fairly easy for me to keep up a regular work schedule while mixing in a requisite amount of fun as well. For Red it was a true vacation---a week off from med school, so her first day in the Kona Marriot was pure relaxation.
I'd almost wished we had booked longer than two nights in Kona, but I'd purposely made it short to force us to explore the island right out of the gate. We specifically planned to make a circuit of the island counterclockwise, first heading down the coast south from Kona. Just before checking out I went online to Booking.com and settled on our next locale, a little B&B in the litle town of Volcano aptly near Kilauea on the south end of the island.
The drive along the coast was beautiful. We detoured at my insistence to see historical relics, including large tikis, at Puʻuhonua o Hōnaunau National Historical Park. I really love the historical Hawaiian artifacts. forty minutes was sufficient was a good walking tour.
Later we detoured again to reach South Point, where we walked down along the rock wall that aligns with the compass to temporarily become the Southernmost People in the United States.
In the late afternoon, after getting lost a little, we finally found the Ohana Fifth Street in a well-forested estate subdivision off the highway. It was essentially a secluded duplex with two units. The instructions on the door told us the key code. The fridge was stocked with a six eggs and a small selection of breakfast muffins.
We didn't see a soul the whole time we were there. Whoever was in the other unit came late and left early. We might as well have been all by ourselves in the middle of the rain forest. The silence was glorious. It was a nice change of pace from the bustle of Kona, and well priced.
In the morning we headed right to the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, the entrance of which was only a few miles away. We took the walking tour of the rim of Kilauea with a haole national park ranger, who spent most of the tour making everyone bummed out about the native species that have been lost, and then spending the last part at the rim going through the Hawaiian mythology of Pele and her suitors in a way that seemed a tad politically correct. Curiously absent in his talk was almost anything about geology.
Nevertheless it was a grand visit to the park. We drove up the observatory for a better look, and then decided to come back in the evening when we could see the orange glow of the lava. To get the best view, we dined at the Volcano House right on the park grounds, which afforded not only a great view, but a selection of locally-inspired and locally-sourced cuisine with live music. It was hard not to feel like we'd really gotten the best out of the place.
But for both of us, it was the "Chain of Craters Drive," that winds down the long sloping volcanic face towards the ocean, that was the true high point. It's quite unlike any other drive. You feel like you're driving right off the edge of the world. It's exactly the kind of thing you'd come to the Big Island to experience.
Having just arrived in the islands, Red was happy to go along with my routine of spending the entire first day in a new place mostly sheltered in place in my room working. I've found that if I can do that, intensely for one day after landing or arriving, then it is fairly easy for me to keep up a regular work schedule while mixing in a requisite amount of fun as well. For Red it was a true vacation---a week off from med school, so her first day in the Kona Marriot was pure relaxation.
I'd almost wished we had booked longer than two nights in Kona, but I'd purposely made it short to force us to explore the island right out of the gate. We specifically planned to make a circuit of the island counterclockwise, first heading down the coast south from Kona. Just before checking out I went online to Booking.com and settled on our next locale, a little B&B in the litle town of Volcano aptly near Kilauea on the south end of the island.
The drive along the coast was beautiful. We detoured at my insistence to see historical relics, including large tikis, at Puʻuhonua o Hōnaunau National Historical Park. I really love the historical Hawaiian artifacts. forty minutes was sufficient was a good walking tour.
Later we detoured again to reach South Point, where we walked down along the rock wall that aligns with the compass to temporarily become the Southernmost People in the United States.
In the late afternoon, after getting lost a little, we finally found the Ohana Fifth Street in a well-forested estate subdivision off the highway. It was essentially a secluded duplex with two units. The instructions on the door told us the key code. The fridge was stocked with a six eggs and a small selection of breakfast muffins.
We didn't see a soul the whole time we were there. Whoever was in the other unit came late and left early. We might as well have been all by ourselves in the middle of the rain forest. The silence was glorious. It was a nice change of pace from the bustle of Kona, and well priced.
In the morning we headed right to the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, the entrance of which was only a few miles away. We took the walking tour of the rim of Kilauea with a haole national park ranger, who spent most of the tour making everyone bummed out about the native species that have been lost, and then spending the last part at the rim going through the Hawaiian mythology of Pele and her suitors in a way that seemed a tad politically correct. Curiously absent in his talk was almost anything about geology.
Nevertheless it was a grand visit to the park. We drove up the observatory for a better look, and then decided to come back in the evening when we could see the orange glow of the lava. To get the best view, we dined at the Volcano House right on the park grounds, which afforded not only a great view, but a selection of locally-inspired and locally-sourced cuisine with live music. It was hard not to feel like we'd really gotten the best out of the place.
But for both of us, it was the "Chain of Craters Drive," that winds down the long sloping volcanic face towards the ocean, that was the true high point. It's quite unlike any other drive. You feel like you're driving right off the edge of the world. It's exactly the kind of thing you'd come to the Big Island to experience.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
A Lodging Guide to the Big Island
King Kamehameha's Kona Beach Hotel---Courtyard/Marriot (Nights 1-2).
A nice way to kick off our sojourn on Hawai'i. At the diminutive open-air Kona Airport, I waited outside the single set of glass doors for Red to come through them. My smartphone told me that her flight on Alaska from Portland was a bit late. There had been "weird winds" (as Red's pilot announced) over the eastern Pacific, against the normal direction of the Trade Winds.
The contrarian winds were due to an abnormal Low north of the Hawaiian Islands, abnormal in that it was both very large and had been sitting in place in the open ocean for days without moving eastward. It was camped south of the Aleutians all the time I was on Oahu, and was forcing the Jet Stream in a kink far the south. This hand the effect of sending a strong belt of bumpy air and clouds from south of Hawai'i up towards the West Coast. I'd been tracking the satellite of it for several days, having been alerted to it while I was still in Oakland by a youtuber that I follow.
While waiting for her (my flight from Honolulu having arrived about a hour before), I bought a couple live flower leis from the booth-sized florist outside the security doors. Later I told Red that I'd grown up assuming that everyone who flies to Hawaii gets such welcoming treatment on the tarmac.
After picking up our rental, we drove straight into Kona, but it was a bit early to check in, so we had lunch at an open air restaurant right along the water---Humpy's. I amused Red by imitating the gravel-voiced announced on Bar Rescue, while talking about the bar. We both agreed that Humpy's (the logo was a whale) actually worked as is, and was in no need of renovation.
The Marriot was a nice place---one could tell from the lobby. At the check-in, the clerk barely had to twist my arm much to get me to upgrade to a room with a partial ocean view. I was in mood to be open to such suggestions, and the upgrade was barely a fraction of the room price.
The room was in the fifth floor of the East Tower. Upon exiting one could smell fresh paint, the way in smells in an old apartment building, as if it is straining to cover up many previous coats. The carpets were nicely room. The room had a period feel from the 1970s but with more recent fixtures and decor. I liked the feeling of, especially outside looking at the cove. It made me feel like Jack Lord standing on the balcony at the beginning of Hawaii Five-O.
The cove happens to be the location of a one-time residence of Kamehameha after his conquest of the rest of the Hawaiian Islands. In recent years the state created a history park there. They built a recreation of a small temple of worship based on descriptions of missionaries. It's now a quaint little "living history" experience, and the site of resort-sponsored luaus on the patio nearby. We enjoyed the sounds of one such event from afar through the warm night air as we lounged in our room with the patio doors open.
View Larger Map
A nice way to kick off our sojourn on Hawai'i. At the diminutive open-air Kona Airport, I waited outside the single set of glass doors for Red to come through them. My smartphone told me that her flight on Alaska from Portland was a bit late. There had been "weird winds" (as Red's pilot announced) over the eastern Pacific, against the normal direction of the Trade Winds.
The contrarian winds were due to an abnormal Low north of the Hawaiian Islands, abnormal in that it was both very large and had been sitting in place in the open ocean for days without moving eastward. It was camped south of the Aleutians all the time I was on Oahu, and was forcing the Jet Stream in a kink far the south. This hand the effect of sending a strong belt of bumpy air and clouds from south of Hawai'i up towards the West Coast. I'd been tracking the satellite of it for several days, having been alerted to it while I was still in Oakland by a youtuber that I follow.
While waiting for her (my flight from Honolulu having arrived about a hour before), I bought a couple live flower leis from the booth-sized florist outside the security doors. Later I told Red that I'd grown up assuming that everyone who flies to Hawaii gets such welcoming treatment on the tarmac.
After picking up our rental, we drove straight into Kona, but it was a bit early to check in, so we had lunch at an open air restaurant right along the water---Humpy's. I amused Red by imitating the gravel-voiced announced on Bar Rescue, while talking about the bar. We both agreed that Humpy's (the logo was a whale) actually worked as is, and was in no need of renovation.
The Marriot was a nice place---one could tell from the lobby. At the check-in, the clerk barely had to twist my arm much to get me to upgrade to a room with a partial ocean view. I was in mood to be open to such suggestions, and the upgrade was barely a fraction of the room price.
The room was in the fifth floor of the East Tower. Upon exiting one could smell fresh paint, the way in smells in an old apartment building, as if it is straining to cover up many previous coats. The carpets were nicely room. The room had a period feel from the 1970s but with more recent fixtures and decor. I liked the feeling of, especially outside looking at the cove. It made me feel like Jack Lord standing on the balcony at the beginning of Hawaii Five-O.
The cove happens to be the location of a one-time residence of Kamehameha after his conquest of the rest of the Hawaiian Islands. In recent years the state created a history park there. They built a recreation of a small temple of worship based on descriptions of missionaries. It's now a quaint little "living history" experience, and the site of resort-sponsored luaus on the patio nearby. We enjoyed the sounds of one such event from afar through the warm night air as we lounged in our room with the patio doors open.
View Larger Map
Friday, November 22, 2013
Working for a Living, Hawaiian Style
Honolulu was a pretty good place to work for a couple days. I'd flown there on Alaska Airlines, having spent the last night in the hotel in Oakland dreading the flight, as I had landed a middle seat in coach. But when I did the online check-in after waking up that morning, I saw a first class upgrade was available. It was the best hundred bucks I've ever spent, and I spent the five hours across the Pacific relaxing in the wide comfortable seat looking out the window at the clouds that covered the ocean almost the entire way from the mainland to the islands.
View Larger Map That pretty much set the tone for experience on Oahu---relaxing, with little stress. Even the difficulties I did encounter, such as the fact that I arrived at the Waikiki Grand too early for my room to be ready, were ones I could let slide. My stoic acceptance of the situation in the lobby prompted the desk clerk to upgrade my standard view room to one with a kitchenette partial ocean view.
And who could have asked for a better view. The old Waikiki Grand, built in 1963 and half converted to condos at this point, was at the very end of hotel row, and thus my new room looked out over the park and the zoo without obstruction straight at Diamond Head, as well the palm trees and the ocean. Each sunrise and sunset there became a meditative reverie.
Ironically it felt like the height of decadence to stay in my room during my first full day there, working at my day job while lounging on the bed with the window open and the sea breeze coming through. Only after sunset, having stormed through a long list of work-related to-do items, did I venture out of the hotel, walk the hundred yards down to the boulevard along the shore and intermix with the streams of Asian tourists there.
It was one of the moments where I couldn't help feeling as if I'd done something right to land in such a place---and I wasn't even on vacation.
View Larger Map That pretty much set the tone for experience on Oahu---relaxing, with little stress. Even the difficulties I did encounter, such as the fact that I arrived at the Waikiki Grand too early for my room to be ready, were ones I could let slide. My stoic acceptance of the situation in the lobby prompted the desk clerk to upgrade my standard view room to one with a kitchenette partial ocean view.
And who could have asked for a better view. The old Waikiki Grand, built in 1963 and half converted to condos at this point, was at the very end of hotel row, and thus my new room looked out over the park and the zoo without obstruction straight at Diamond Head, as well the palm trees and the ocean. Each sunrise and sunset there became a meditative reverie.
Ironically it felt like the height of decadence to stay in my room during my first full day there, working at my day job while lounging on the bed with the window open and the sea breeze coming through. Only after sunset, having stormed through a long list of work-related to-do items, did I venture out of the hotel, walk the hundred yards down to the boulevard along the shore and intermix with the streams of Asian tourists there.
It was one of the moments where I couldn't help feeling as if I'd done something right to land in such a place---and I wasn't even on vacation.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Many Miles Away by a Bright Tropical Surf
This morning I woke up in my hotel room before dark and opened my laptop before I was barely awake. The time zone in which I'm currently located puts me in a severely lagging position compared to most of my colleagues and co-workers in New York. Fortunately there were no fire alarms ringing concerning the web application for the Big Publishing Company for which I am the sole curator lately.
With the sunlight just creeping in, I went to the window of the room and looked out. Across the street, five stories below was a park with a zoo. Beyond that an ancient volcanic crater covered with a jungle of green on its flanks.
Then I went downstairs and went into the balmy tropical morning air. A few other folks, some tourists and shuffling homeless went up and down the sidewalk. From there I could see the palm trees by the ocean, only a couple hundred yards away.
I walked a half block to a convenience store and bought a cup of coffee. I went back outside to the sidewalk and sipped it while looking out towards the water.
It's not every day of one's life that one gets to have morning coffee on Waikiki Beach.
With the sunlight just creeping in, I went to the window of the room and looked out. Across the street, five stories below was a park with a zoo. Beyond that an ancient volcanic crater covered with a jungle of green on its flanks.
Then I went downstairs and went into the balmy tropical morning air. A few other folks, some tourists and shuffling homeless went up and down the sidewalk. From there I could see the palm trees by the ocean, only a couple hundred yards away.
I walked a half block to a convenience store and bought a cup of coffee. I went back outside to the sidewalk and sipped it while looking out towards the water.
It's not every day of one's life that one gets to have morning coffee on Waikiki Beach.
An Evening With Coop and Molly
My visit to Oakland was brief but very nice. First off, the Inn and Jack London Square turned out to be the "Northern California Hotel I've Been Looking For." It was fairly moderately priced, well-run, and was in the waterfront area of Oakland that has plenty of places to eat and drink, etc. It even had Turner Classic Movies (the only California hotel north of Bakersfield that I've found this to be true).
Not that I watched television a lot. Rather the highlight of my two days there was getting to hang out for a long weekend afternoon and evening with my good friend Coop, who suggested we meet up at a lively bar down on 4th and Alice. Getting to see far-flung friends and family on a semi-regular basis is the really the highest pleasure of my lifestyle.
I hadn't seen him in a year, and it was a great joy to get to hang out again. At his suggestion, we drove across the bridge to Alameda, which I had never visited. Coop gave me a tour of the island, a little part of California that is new to me. Slowly I'm filling in the blanks.
The extra-extra-bonus was that Coop informed me that our Molly was in town, staying at a AirBnB place up in the Berkeley hills. I hadn't seen her in several years. The place where she was staying was one of those spectacular hillside places. Molly was renting a smaller house next to the main one while looking for an apartment in Oakland. She was hoping to relocate for a year out to the Bay Area, and to rent out her place in Denver.
I've been coming to see Coop in the Bay Area for almost thirty years now, since our freshman year in college when he was going to Berkeley. Likewise I'd visited Molly in several places around the globe, including a very notable trip to Paris back in 1985.
Ironically I had been thinking of her while I was in San Francisco, climbing Coit Hill in the dark by myself for the view. It's the kind of urban night exploration that reminded me of Molly.
I told them I had planned to write an entire blog post about the two of them, specifically about how my appreciation of cities was due in no small part to the time I spent with them. I guess this post will have to do for now. Sometime I write more about the time I spent with them, perhaps if I write my memoirs some day.
The theme I would want to convey is that I've been one of the luckiest people ever to live, as far as I'm concerned, in the people I've got to meet and spend time with.
Not that I watched television a lot. Rather the highlight of my two days there was getting to hang out for a long weekend afternoon and evening with my good friend Coop, who suggested we meet up at a lively bar down on 4th and Alice. Getting to see far-flung friends and family on a semi-regular basis is the really the highest pleasure of my lifestyle.
I hadn't seen him in a year, and it was a great joy to get to hang out again. At his suggestion, we drove across the bridge to Alameda, which I had never visited. Coop gave me a tour of the island, a little part of California that is new to me. Slowly I'm filling in the blanks.
The extra-extra-bonus was that Coop informed me that our Molly was in town, staying at a AirBnB place up in the Berkeley hills. I hadn't seen her in several years. The place where she was staying was one of those spectacular hillside places. Molly was renting a smaller house next to the main one while looking for an apartment in Oakland. She was hoping to relocate for a year out to the Bay Area, and to rent out her place in Denver.
I've been coming to see Coop in the Bay Area for almost thirty years now, since our freshman year in college when he was going to Berkeley. Likewise I'd visited Molly in several places around the globe, including a very notable trip to Paris back in 1985.
Ironically I had been thinking of her while I was in San Francisco, climbing Coit Hill in the dark by myself for the view. It's the kind of urban night exploration that reminded me of Molly.
I told them I had planned to write an entire blog post about the two of them, specifically about how my appreciation of cities was due in no small part to the time I spent with them. I guess this post will have to do for now. Sometime I write more about the time I spent with them, perhaps if I write my memoirs some day.
The theme I would want to convey is that I've been one of the luckiest people ever to live, as far as I'm concerned, in the people I've got to meet and spend time with.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Hashtag Oakland
hWhen I came up out of the ground at the 12th Street station, the first thing I see is the beautiful glass towers of the Civic Center area. They are lit sublimely in the afternoon sun. I can see them when I'm still in the station.
I saw some of them coming in, once we came up out of the Bay Tube approaching downtown. Ask, says the sign on top of one. The sign for a once-prominent-but-still-hanging-in-there search engine graces the crown of one of them.
There is a pleasant coffee shop right next to the escalators. The headline of the local newspaper is about the successful launch of public stock for Twitter. The people in the coffee shop look like Indian tech workers on the way home fro a commute, mixed with locals.
When I come all the way up outdoors., I see the classic Italianate Tribune Tower on the other side of Broadway. San Francisco is a dream. Oakland is the beginning of Real California, Real America. It's a normal nothing-to-ashamed-about city that is smack dab across the way from one of the Special Places on the Earth. That makes Oakland seem both overly dull by comparison and also imbues it with the warmth of knowing that while being amidst this normal dull American City, you can go right across the bridge to Urban Paradise.
I saw some of them coming in, once we came up out of the Bay Tube approaching downtown. Ask, says the sign on top of one. The sign for a once-prominent-but-still-hanging-in-there search engine graces the crown of one of them.
There is a pleasant coffee shop right next to the escalators. The headline of the local newspaper is about the successful launch of public stock for Twitter. The people in the coffee shop look like Indian tech workers on the way home fro a commute, mixed with locals.
When I come all the way up outdoors., I see the classic Italianate Tribune Tower on the other side of Broadway. San Francisco is a dream. Oakland is the beginning of Real California, Real America. It's a normal nothing-to-ashamed-about city that is smack dab across the way from one of the Special Places on the Earth. That makes Oakland seem both overly dull by comparison and also imbues it with the warmth of knowing that while being amidst this normal dull American City, you can go right across the bridge to Urban Paradise.
Friday, November 8, 2013
The Drum Circle of Market Street
The phone in my room rang at 10:30 this morning. It was the Chinese woman down at the front desk. She wanted to know if I was checking out or staying on. They have a big turnover on these rooms. High demand, high competition.
I told her I was checking out. At 11 I went down and turned the remote control and the card key into her, and then schlepped three blocks down Lombard to the corner of Laguna, where I'd seen the coin laundry the night before.
The Magnolia Laundry---I went inside the small laundrette. It was narrow with big glass windows. A pair of old Chinese woen stood talking just inside the door. A couple young white women were doing loads. About half the driers were in operation.
No restroom. A true old school laundry. I didn't even need to ask about wi-fi, but I checked anyway. Looking down the long list of routers made me laugh. One was called: "No Free Wi-fi, Cheapskate!!!"
While I did a load of laundry, I stood by the table near the back interior window, that lead to the residence probably, I worked at the day job using my smartphone to send emails, then made code fixes on my local machine. I could upload them later.
At one point, the only other person in the front room was a young white woman with leather boots and big glasses who seemed to be grading papers. She looked like she was a women's studies major at some point in her career. At one point a young Chinese woman came in. I didn't hear what the white woman asked her, but she replied rather loudly, "There are no restrooms here. And I don't work here." She emphasized that in a way that made me think she was trying to imply "shame on you for assuming I work here just because I'm Chinese." It made me laugh to overhear this.
When my clothes were dry I repacked the backpack neatly and then hiked briskly along Bay Street past sunny Marina Park to Van Ness, and then along Van Ness south through the blocks as it climbs the long slow incline, a beautiful wide boulevard flanked by businesses useful to the residents who live nearby.
I stopped at coffeeshop that had wi-fi, bough a croissant and cup of joe, and caught up on work by sending some follow-up emails with my laptop. When I was well rested I walked the rest of the way to the crest of the hill, past the auto museum of the Academy of Art University, to California Street, where I crossed Van Ness caught the cable car in front of the Starbucks.
There was ample seating. I had to lean forward on the outward-facing bench with my backpack, and steadied my big Post-it Easel with my legs around a metal pole, almost losing it once out onto the seat.
But the easel stayed in my grip. I rode the cable car to the end of the line at Drumm, where I got out and bought a Vietnamese baguette sandwich. I ate on the corner in front of the shop watching the cops direct traffic coming off Market by the Wells Fargo (there's a Wells Fargo---and a Starbucks---at the end of every cable car line, it seems).
It was a little past two in the afternoon. The light on the buildings above Market gave the contours an enhanced dimensionality that time of day. Unable to leave yet, I lingered on a bench across from the old PG&E building, drinking a hot ginger chai from a food cart vendor.
It was a perfect three days in the City. Now it was time to go. I picked up my bags, and after breaking change for a twenty inside a coffeeshop, I went back out onto the ample sidewalk along Market and then I went down into the hole into the ground.
I told her I was checking out. At 11 I went down and turned the remote control and the card key into her, and then schlepped three blocks down Lombard to the corner of Laguna, where I'd seen the coin laundry the night before.
The Magnolia Laundry---I went inside the small laundrette. It was narrow with big glass windows. A pair of old Chinese woen stood talking just inside the door. A couple young white women were doing loads. About half the driers were in operation.
No restroom. A true old school laundry. I didn't even need to ask about wi-fi, but I checked anyway. Looking down the long list of routers made me laugh. One was called: "No Free Wi-fi, Cheapskate!!!"
While I did a load of laundry, I stood by the table near the back interior window, that lead to the residence probably, I worked at the day job using my smartphone to send emails, then made code fixes on my local machine. I could upload them later.
At one point, the only other person in the front room was a young white woman with leather boots and big glasses who seemed to be grading papers. She looked like she was a women's studies major at some point in her career. At one point a young Chinese woman came in. I didn't hear what the white woman asked her, but she replied rather loudly, "There are no restrooms here. And I don't work here." She emphasized that in a way that made me think she was trying to imply "shame on you for assuming I work here just because I'm Chinese." It made me laugh to overhear this.
When my clothes were dry I repacked the backpack neatly and then hiked briskly along Bay Street past sunny Marina Park to Van Ness, and then along Van Ness south through the blocks as it climbs the long slow incline, a beautiful wide boulevard flanked by businesses useful to the residents who live nearby.
I stopped at coffeeshop that had wi-fi, bough a croissant and cup of joe, and caught up on work by sending some follow-up emails with my laptop. When I was well rested I walked the rest of the way to the crest of the hill, past the auto museum of the Academy of Art University, to California Street, where I crossed Van Ness caught the cable car in front of the Starbucks.
There was ample seating. I had to lean forward on the outward-facing bench with my backpack, and steadied my big Post-it Easel with my legs around a metal pole, almost losing it once out onto the seat.
But the easel stayed in my grip. I rode the cable car to the end of the line at Drumm, where I got out and bought a Vietnamese baguette sandwich. I ate on the corner in front of the shop watching the cops direct traffic coming off Market by the Wells Fargo (there's a Wells Fargo---and a Starbucks---at the end of every cable car line, it seems).
It was a little past two in the afternoon. The light on the buildings above Market gave the contours an enhanced dimensionality that time of day. Unable to leave yet, I lingered on a bench across from the old PG&E building, drinking a hot ginger chai from a food cart vendor.
It was a perfect three days in the City. Now it was time to go. I picked up my bags, and after breaking change for a twenty inside a coffeeshop, I went back out onto the ample sidewalk along Market and then I went down into the hole into the ground.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Lombard Street 9:54 PM
Nightime. Up on the motel roof again. Russian Hill is dark. The buildings on the crest were the last ones to see sunlight, even after the sun went below the Presidio from where I was. The buildings stood out so beautiful and orange. There are only three or four ones of any size. Such is the scale of this City.
In the embers of the day over the rooftops and I turn my gaze, trying to absorb this the real reality of San Francisco, the real terrain in its true contours. I close my eyes and imagine it and then reopen, and look around like a merry-go-round, an all-purpose camera obscura way of grabing the information.
After the sun goes down, then it is the time to shine for the Bridge. It's backlit/sidelit from behind the Presidio. It sort of glows a little, like little strings of orangeness all of sudden come to life.
Across the street, on the top of the motel there is an iPhone 5 billboard, the color of watermelon, illuminated lusciously against the background of the district just to the south, on the flank of the hill where Van Ness descends down towards the Marina.
The computer is much smaller than it used to be, a long time ago.
In the embers of the day over the rooftops and I turn my gaze, trying to absorb this the real reality of San Francisco, the real terrain in its true contours. I close my eyes and imagine it and then reopen, and look around like a merry-go-round, an all-purpose camera obscura way of grabing the information.
After the sun goes down, then it is the time to shine for the Bridge. It's backlit/sidelit from behind the Presidio. It sort of glows a little, like little strings of orangeness all of sudden come to life.
Across the street, on the top of the motel there is an iPhone 5 billboard, the color of watermelon, illuminated lusciously against the background of the district just to the south, on the flank of the hill where Van Ness descends down towards the Marina.
The computer is much smaller than it used to be, a long time ago.
Open Now Thy Golden Gates of Beauty
"Maybe one night not long enough to see San Francisco?" said the woman at the front desk, in a strong Chinese accent, as she ran my debit card through the system.
I was at the Redwood Inn on Lombard, having just come straight down Russian Hill on foot toting my bags and my easel board. I explained to her that I had been staying in a different hotel for a couple nights, but that I wanted to change for tonight.
"Where you stay before?" she asked me.
"Hotel North Beach," I said. "It's nice, but it's old. Bathroom is down the hall. For my last night here, I wanted my own bathroom." The North Beach Hotel on Kearny is one of those throwbacks to the old San Francisco. It reminds me of the room at the beginning of Bullit.
It looks like it surely a flophouse at one point in the 1970s. It's now nicely renovated, but it still has both the good and bad points of being the old style of lodging. The rooms are tiny---less than a hundred square feet. They have sinks, but no toilets. It harkens to the earliest of true American hotel rooms, invented just after the turn of the Twentieth Century by Ellsworth Milton Statler (a great forgotten American, the founder of the modern lodging industry). He's someone who deserves a really great biography.
The sole window looked out over a central courtyard well at other windows less than ten feet away--the most unscenic hotel view of any room in the City, to be sure, but in a way I didn't mind. It made me it feel as if I were in some kind of cave, even those the frenzied activity of North Beach was only a few feet away outside. It serves my need for balance and retreat.
I might still be there but that the guy across the hall was fond of leaving his door open with his television on full blast loud all night long. The first night there I went down to complain at 3 am. The Russian security guy in a blazer mumbled knowingly, "Oh, yes, the guy in Room 65." That got the sound turned down, but it was up again the next night. I could tell from previous experiences in apartment living that people who do that kind of thing are unable to understand how annoying they are, in some kind of autistic way.
At least night two was quieter. The shows he was watching were quiet enough for me to get to sleep. But that was enough. I decided that for my third and last night in the city I go for a more conventional motel up along the stretch of Highway 101 as it approaches the bridge---a strip of conventional California-style lodging.
The cable on the Hyde Street line was broken---all the cable cars were stranded---so I wound up having to walk all the way to Lombard from North Beach (I chose to do that, to be sure---it was either the cable cars or nothing, I decided).
When I finally got here, all I could think about was having my own bathroom to take a leisurely shower. After checking in, I got my key and took the elevator up to the top floor of the motel. As it happens my room wasn't ready. The Chinese housekeeper was still cleaning it up.
Fortunately there's a little staircase that goes up to the roof of the motel. Here is where I am sitting, looking out over the rooftops towards the Golden Gate Bridge and Marin. It's perfect and sunny, with the slightest breeze to keep me cool as I type this.
It's quite an upgrade on the view from my room at the North Beach. I find if you are patient, the view will find you. It reminds me of something I was thinking the other night, as I was indulging in my night jaunt up to Coit Tower, and feeling bolder than I have in a while, about exploring new places.
When you are in the City, there is some kind of playing that must go on. Either you play in the City, or the City plays you. Take your pick.
I was at the Redwood Inn on Lombard, having just come straight down Russian Hill on foot toting my bags and my easel board. I explained to her that I had been staying in a different hotel for a couple nights, but that I wanted to change for tonight.
"Where you stay before?" she asked me.
"Hotel North Beach," I said. "It's nice, but it's old. Bathroom is down the hall. For my last night here, I wanted my own bathroom." The North Beach Hotel on Kearny is one of those throwbacks to the old San Francisco. It reminds me of the room at the beginning of Bullit.
It looks like it surely a flophouse at one point in the 1970s. It's now nicely renovated, but it still has both the good and bad points of being the old style of lodging. The rooms are tiny---less than a hundred square feet. They have sinks, but no toilets. It harkens to the earliest of true American hotel rooms, invented just after the turn of the Twentieth Century by Ellsworth Milton Statler (a great forgotten American, the founder of the modern lodging industry). He's someone who deserves a really great biography.
The sole window looked out over a central courtyard well at other windows less than ten feet away--the most unscenic hotel view of any room in the City, to be sure, but in a way I didn't mind. It made me it feel as if I were in some kind of cave, even those the frenzied activity of North Beach was only a few feet away outside. It serves my need for balance and retreat.
I might still be there but that the guy across the hall was fond of leaving his door open with his television on full blast loud all night long. The first night there I went down to complain at 3 am. The Russian security guy in a blazer mumbled knowingly, "Oh, yes, the guy in Room 65." That got the sound turned down, but it was up again the next night. I could tell from previous experiences in apartment living that people who do that kind of thing are unable to understand how annoying they are, in some kind of autistic way.
At least night two was quieter. The shows he was watching were quiet enough for me to get to sleep. But that was enough. I decided that for my third and last night in the city I go for a more conventional motel up along the stretch of Highway 101 as it approaches the bridge---a strip of conventional California-style lodging.
The cable on the Hyde Street line was broken---all the cable cars were stranded---so I wound up having to walk all the way to Lombard from North Beach (I chose to do that, to be sure---it was either the cable cars or nothing, I decided).
When I finally got here, all I could think about was having my own bathroom to take a leisurely shower. After checking in, I got my key and took the elevator up to the top floor of the motel. As it happens my room wasn't ready. The Chinese housekeeper was still cleaning it up.
Fortunately there's a little staircase that goes up to the roof of the motel. Here is where I am sitting, looking out over the rooftops towards the Golden Gate Bridge and Marin. It's perfect and sunny, with the slightest breeze to keep me cool as I type this.
It's quite an upgrade on the view from my room at the North Beach. I find if you are patient, the view will find you. It reminds me of something I was thinking the other night, as I was indulging in my night jaunt up to Coit Tower, and feeling bolder than I have in a while, about exploring new places.
When you are in the City, there is some kind of playing that must go on. Either you play in the City, or the City plays you. Take your pick.
My Two-Day San Francisco Habit
Using this old map of Chinatown as my guide, I sortied from the hotel just before noon and walked a couple blocks down Kearny towards the location of the "white shooting gallery" formerly at 728 Clay Street. The building is long gone. There is no 728 Clay anymore, but the spot is now a two-story brick building readdressed as 729 and 729a, the former being a somewhat respectable tea house.
After that I "climbed the grid ladder" of China town, going up block by block, zigzagging between Clay and Washington, including the alley above Grant, where even amidst the modern tourists a big Occidental toting a backpack and carrying a big Post-It Easel still gets a second glance from the folks standing in front of the nondescript doors of ancient residences and the backs of gift shops.
Going up the flank of Nob Hill, Chinatown still drops off quickly above Stockton, as it did on that old map. There are Chinese people, to be sure, for example at the self-service laundry on Powell and Clay, but it doesn't look like Chinatown---just "normal San Francisco," neither manifestly poor nor wealthy, before you start climbing into the more manifestly upscale at the crest of the hill.
My destination was the me coffeeshop as yesterday, across the street from the Cable Car Museum. It has a comfortable vibe. On Day 2, I already have a routine.
But that's the compromise I have to make, in a constantly reshifting environment---the repetition of petty habit that develops instantly in a new place. In each new locale, I tend to eat and work in the same places once I find ones that work for me. It lets me parcel out my psychological reserves required to confront newness. If I were traveling for pleasure, I might not need to do this, but work itself speaks of routine. I'm not on vacation. I'm just living a normal work-a-day life amidst a shifting terrain.
After that I "climbed the grid ladder" of China town, going up block by block, zigzagging between Clay and Washington, including the alley above Grant, where even amidst the modern tourists a big Occidental toting a backpack and carrying a big Post-It Easel still gets a second glance from the folks standing in front of the nondescript doors of ancient residences and the backs of gift shops.
Going up the flank of Nob Hill, Chinatown still drops off quickly above Stockton, as it did on that old map. There are Chinese people, to be sure, for example at the self-service laundry on Powell and Clay, but it doesn't look like Chinatown---just "normal San Francisco," neither manifestly poor nor wealthy, before you start climbing into the more manifestly upscale at the crest of the hill.
But that's the compromise I have to make, in a constantly reshifting environment---the repetition of petty habit that develops instantly in a new place. In each new locale, I tend to eat and work in the same places once I find ones that work for me. It lets me parcel out my psychological reserves required to confront newness. If I were traveling for pleasure, I might not need to do this, but work itself speaks of routine. I'm not on vacation. I'm just living a normal work-a-day life amidst a shifting terrain.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
In Which I Commute to Work By Cable Car
I spent the entire morning in my hotel room---a zero-foot commute. There was no coffee in the hotel---I'd prepared the night before with
a bottled version so I could get up and start working without leaving
the room.
Outside in America, I live an exceptional life, but here in San Francisco, I am like Superman on Kandor----I'm just a normal techie work drone. Or not. Sometimes I like thinking that I am. It gives me a chance to excel among the excellent. Who wouldn't want to take advantage of that?
After plowing through a bunch of work, and feeling caught up with obligations for the day and even for the next day, I tied up my desktop and finally sortied out onto Kearny, coming right out into busy mid-day San Francisco. I was right across from Cafe Zoetrope. I hoofed it uphill through Chinatown. The sun was still well high in the sky. The air was perfectly balmly.
I found myself glad I'd prepped for the City with that day of hking in Yosemite. Ironically the sidewalks in the city felt less urban and less crowded than the path in the park---and fewer European tourists as well.
I loved the way the hill feels in your legs as you climb it.
At the Chinese Hospital I across to Washington and went uphill from there. At the corning of Mason I grabbed a cup of hot coffee at the Gallery Cafe across from the Cable Car Museum. After I was done i went inside the museum. It was free, and magnificent. You can look right down at the sheaves as they guide the cables in from the four different lines (there are only three car routes, that use these four lines). I delighted in the exhibits, and being able to see out across the humming cables as they approach the reat engines that guide them. There's an awesome exhibit on cable splicing. Wire rope is a fascinating topic.
From there I followed the Hyde line for a while, uphill to the top of Nob Hill, and down to Hyde. Then I cut across to the south, to California, and followed that line to its end, at Van Ness, which is the end of the line. I went inside the guitar store, and looked at some of the stuff on the wall, and then I got on to the cable car that was sitting at the end of the line at Van Ness.
There were only a few people on the car. I sat on one of the outside seats, looking out at the street. I had the whole bench to myself.
When the car operator came up to me, I awkwardly offered him the fare at the wrong time---six dollars in casch. That confused him.
"You're a local, right?" he asked me.
He paused, a bit confused, and offered "or are you a tourist? I thought you were a local."
"Today," I said, "I'm a tourist."
Outside in America, I live an exceptional life, but here in San Francisco, I am like Superman on Kandor----I'm just a normal techie work drone. Or not. Sometimes I like thinking that I am. It gives me a chance to excel among the excellent. Who wouldn't want to take advantage of that?
After plowing through a bunch of work, and feeling caught up with obligations for the day and even for the next day, I tied up my desktop and finally sortied out onto Kearny, coming right out into busy mid-day San Francisco. I was right across from Cafe Zoetrope. I hoofed it uphill through Chinatown. The sun was still well high in the sky. The air was perfectly balmly.
I found myself glad I'd prepped for the City with that day of hking in Yosemite. Ironically the sidewalks in the city felt less urban and less crowded than the path in the park---and fewer European tourists as well.
I loved the way the hill feels in your legs as you climb it.
At the Chinese Hospital I across to Washington and went uphill from there. At the corning of Mason I grabbed a cup of hot coffee at the Gallery Cafe across from the Cable Car Museum. After I was done i went inside the museum. It was free, and magnificent. You can look right down at the sheaves as they guide the cables in from the four different lines (there are only three car routes, that use these four lines). I delighted in the exhibits, and being able to see out across the humming cables as they approach the reat engines that guide them. There's an awesome exhibit on cable splicing. Wire rope is a fascinating topic.
From there I followed the Hyde line for a while, uphill to the top of Nob Hill, and down to Hyde. Then I cut across to the south, to California, and followed that line to its end, at Van Ness, which is the end of the line. I went inside the guitar store, and looked at some of the stuff on the wall, and then I got on to the cable car that was sitting at the end of the line at Van Ness.
There were only a few people on the car. I sat on one of the outside seats, looking out at the street. I had the whole bench to myself.
When the car operator came up to me, I awkwardly offered him the fare at the wrong time---six dollars in casch. That confused him.
"You're a local, right?" he asked me.
He paused, a bit confused, and offered "or are you a tourist? I thought you were a local."
"Today," I said, "I'm a tourist."
Lucky Lucky Lucky San Francisco
I love November in the City. The sudden change of the clock means that the evening rush now is suddenly illuminated by the golden hour near sunset.
The light was that way yesterday down along the canyons of the Embarcadero Center as people were leaving their work and emptying out into the wider canyon of the Slot on Market Street. The restored electric streetcars give it a timeless science fiction feeling.
Last night feel adventurous after dark I slipped out and began walking up Columbus from my hotel, past City Lights to Washington Square where I stopped a while and contemplated the towers of Peter and Paul, lit up white in the night and just crowing the tops of the trees planted right in front of them.
A couple women jogged by in the dark. The place was full of homeless---a man slept under a tarp.
The door of the parish center was open. An old Chinese woman leaned out as I walked by, as if looking for someone else. Then following the plot line of an old movie I climbed in the dark up towards Greenwich Street until I saw the harbor from a vantage point on the flank of Telegraph Hill.
Right as I got there I could see, down on the dark water below, the beautiful mass of a giant cruise ship entering the Bay. It was all lit up, a floating hotel. The lights of its many decks refelected down into the water like long tubules like smears of crayon, It made the ship and its reflection look like a giant techno jellyfish sliding sidways towards the old span of the Bay Bridge to Yerba Buena island. I marveled at how beauitful it was. Behind the island one couls see the new span of the Bridge. It looked like a white LED veil held aloft in front of the old waterfront of Oakland---a triumph of design.
A trio of young men, visiting techie types in their Twenties, walked by me and went up the path into the woods towards Coit Tower. I followed them and went all the way to the tower. After that I wound up walking all the way down to the Hyde Pier. On the way home I got a piece of pizza from a place right where Columbus means Kearny.
The City never felt so beautiful and accessible as at that moment. It felt as if every place I had been to had prepared to me to be able to come back here and experience it this way, as if some kind of reward for every bit of effort I've managed to muster.
The light was that way yesterday down along the canyons of the Embarcadero Center as people were leaving their work and emptying out into the wider canyon of the Slot on Market Street. The restored electric streetcars give it a timeless science fiction feeling.
Last night feel adventurous after dark I slipped out and began walking up Columbus from my hotel, past City Lights to Washington Square where I stopped a while and contemplated the towers of Peter and Paul, lit up white in the night and just crowing the tops of the trees planted right in front of them.
A couple women jogged by in the dark. The place was full of homeless---a man slept under a tarp.
The door of the parish center was open. An old Chinese woman leaned out as I walked by, as if looking for someone else. Then following the plot line of an old movie I climbed in the dark up towards Greenwich Street until I saw the harbor from a vantage point on the flank of Telegraph Hill.
Right as I got there I could see, down on the dark water below, the beautiful mass of a giant cruise ship entering the Bay. It was all lit up, a floating hotel. The lights of its many decks refelected down into the water like long tubules like smears of crayon, It made the ship and its reflection look like a giant techno jellyfish sliding sidways towards the old span of the Bay Bridge to Yerba Buena island. I marveled at how beauitful it was. Behind the island one couls see the new span of the Bridge. It looked like a white LED veil held aloft in front of the old waterfront of Oakland---a triumph of design.
A trio of young men, visiting techie types in their Twenties, walked by me and went up the path into the woods towards Coit Tower. I followed them and went all the way to the tower. After that I wound up walking all the way down to the Hyde Pier. On the way home I got a piece of pizza from a place right where Columbus means Kearny.
The City never felt so beautiful and accessible as at that moment. It felt as if every place I had been to had prepared to me to be able to come back here and experience it this way, as if some kind of reward for every bit of effort I've managed to muster.
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