Due to popular demand, here is a pic of the boots.
A picture of Old Faithful (insert own punchline here)
We walk to the Old Faithful geyser. It’s indeed very faithful, and spurts every five minutes or so, but is clearly a more modest cousin of the big one in Wyoming.
Then on foot to find Sterling vineyard after finally deciding which one to see. This involves a slightly comical walk through a semi-industrial area.
Pic from residential street on way to the winery.
Then... rain...? Are we going to lose our “no rain” record? A few drops, it hardly counts.
At the end of a long path through the Napa Valley countryside we finally see the gates to the “winery” wtf, and we’re given the usual very friendly greetings.
A cable car takes us up to the tasting zone and we get five samples on our self-guided tour (Yes! No standing around having to listen to someone drone on about barrels).
Talking of barrels.
The patio and its view is lovely but the amount of wine they pour is a bit on the stingy side – it’s almost like some people are happy just to sample the different varieties.
We trudge back to the hotel and I am afflicted by “afternoon alcohol legs” although I stoically choose not to burden Rachel with this news.
So. Napa Valley. Yes, the Napa Valley trip may be remembered with the passing of time as “the difficult Napa Valley trip”, failing, as it did, to provide the dreamed of bus tour of multiple “wineries”, a hazy day spent squinting at the legs of local Cabernets, the rolling vineyards blurry impressions through the glass as I hold it aloft against the weak spring sun, and local experts murmuring their agreement as I identify “chocolate notes”, unaware that I have said it about every wine that day in the hope of being right at least once.
Talking of legs, mine are a bit done in after Yosemite. So: lazy evening slobbing out in our room with nice food from deli. Dead Poets Society on TV. Insane.
High point:
R: Mini cable car ride
T: Ditto.
Low point:
R: Arrival at the geyser, which didn't look that impressive, but was "okay".
T: The walk back from the winery. My achey breaky feet.
Day 28
A stressful start as we battle to book somewhere to stay in San Francisco on da internet while contending with a slow wi-fi connection, the raucous conversations of a chainsaw-voiced woman on reception and the endless pops-ups on Trip Advisor, which crash first my computer and then the hotel’s. Grrr.
Rachel again succeeds in finding us somewhere that sounds good and we set off, stopping at Lake Berryessa on the way to satisfy my interest in the Zodiac case. We fail to find the scene of his most infamous crime, which was always going to be difficult as the site is partially submerged by water in the winter months and is therefore hard to identify. I am 80 per cent sure we didn’t find it but will be double checking as there is a chance that the place where we picnicked may have been it.
Was this it? Probably not.
Back on the road for the push to San Francisco, our final stop (blubs, is comforted by daytime TV host). Excitement Mounts Part 53 as we near the Golden Gate Bridge, passing Lucas Valley Road, which I’m tempted to drive to see as it’s where George Lucas’s Skywalker Ranch HQ is based (not open to the public, obv).
Then, without warning, we’re on the bridge, which has such narrow lanes for traffic that I’m concentrating too much to enjoy it, although when we stop to pay a toll I see something else out there in the bay, a tiny island, benign now, easy to miss, although believe me, Alcatraz seemed liked the biggest place on earth when last I went there, one foggy visiting day many years ago, a December day when - ... well, let’s not get into that now.
Then begins the Second Stressful Bit of the Day as Rachel gets us to where the hotel should be – but isn’t. Not only is it “isn’t” but it’s in a really bad part of town. Or would be, if it existed. Welcome to Tenderloin. This is a superdodgy area of the city that we’d read about on Trip Advisor (the headlines for two reviews of one hotel we nearly booked here were simply: “Welcome to Bum Town” and “WORST HOTEL EVER”).
We thought we’d avoided Tenderloin with our choice of hotel but, as we turned into our street, the countercultural, pastel-hued vibe of San Francisco vanished in the blink of an eye and we were thrust into a world of unfortunate but nevertheless scary street types storming up and down the sidewalk: arguing, begging, shouting and, in the case of one chap standing in a shallow doorway, his back turned, even smoking a pipe, and not the sort my Uncle Brian was partial to in the 70s.
We drive round and round the block, making precarious lane changes in our desperate, sweaty quest to find the hotel, which fails to reveal itself, even though we’re sure we have the right address and have seen the entire length of the street. We reluctantly stop the car so that Rachel can phone the hotel for directions, and I look out to see, a few feet away, a gentleman rolling around in a pile of cardboard boxes, slobbering over half a doughnut.
After Rachel’s phone call, we locate the elusive Serrano Hotel, which was hidden behind a ton of scaffolding. The stress continues as we suddenly realise it’s time to get all of our stuff out of the car now. We unceremoniously remove everything and dump it – muddy hiking boots included – in the hotel lobby.
I ask the doorman, John, for his advice on where not to go. His advice is that “down the hill (ie our street Taylor)” or behind the hotel is to be avoided. Everything else is fine. This advice echoed what we’d just heard the man on reception telling a woman guest a few minutes earlier:
WOMAN (checking in): So can I get there by walking down the hill?
MAN: No. Running? Yes. Walking, no.
Rachel and I dump our stuff in our room and then go straight back to the lobby because it’s mingling time, that hour of each day when the hotel gives its guests a free glass of wine as Dutch courage to face Tenderloin. We schmooze with the mayor and chief of police and I trade some inside tips with local dotcommer Mark Zuckerberg (“Trevor, throwing a sheep is coming back in a big way... But I’ve already said too much”). Okay, what actually happens is that we just hide in a corner, wondering if we can pretend to be two couples to get more wine.
We mooch out to nearby Lori’s Diner for some okay food in retro surroundings (although, given that so many places are decked out like this, and always have been, in what sense are they “retro”?). On to Union Square. Designer shops. Blah. But safe and upbeat. Hoorah. Back to hotel to watch Fun With Dick and Jane (the remake, sadly).
I make the mistake of absently playing a Stars tournament while watching the film and am still playing it at 3am, when I realise that only first place is worth winning ($1,400) and I commit suicide, 35/1200. Similar result the night before. Hmm, playing the big boys at The Venetian has whetted my tourney appetite again.
Interesting sounds from the street in the wee hours. Luckily our room is at the back of the hotel. A very loud bang earlier in the evening from our side – too loud to be a gun. Probably just some light explosive. That’s all right, then.
High point:
R: Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge
T: Spotting Alcatraz, albeit fleetingly
Low point:
R: Not being able to find out hotel
T: Ditto.
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