One of the many things California in general and Sacramento in particular sucks at is convenient public transportation between Sacramento and San Francisco. The capital of California (Sacramento) and one of the world’s largest and famous cities (San Francisco), just ninety miles apart, and you can’t just switch platforms at a train station, let alone stay on one train to get from one city to the other.
At last count, over eleventy bazillion commuters travel back and forth between the Bay Area and Sacramento each day. And they all spend a third of their lives on Interstate 80. Or 580. Or 680. Or one of the many 80s. My over abundance of cynicism allows me to speculate that such a travesty continues to this day because somebody hasn’t slept with the right somebody yet, or somebody in a position of power doesn’t stand to make a lot of money from such a venture. And also because Sacramento can’t have anything nice.
And so, if I ever have the misfortune of needing to go to San Francisco, I drive. I pour myself a 132-ounce cup of coffee in my stainless steel drum travel mug, grab my 52-gigabyte iPod, put on my polyester suit of oppression, and get in my car. Blech.
So yeah, I went to San Francisco recently. Me and Lacy, the Nanny Goats in Panties mascot? For a blogging seminar conference thing called Bloggy Boot Camp at the St. Francis hotel. Such a sophisticated affair, I must say.
Check out the digs for lunch:
And this was the main entree.
Pretty swanky, eh? I mean, where else can you go and get served three glasses of water with your meal? Talk about first class. Top notch, I say!
And what gastronomic brag would be complete without showing off dessert?
Jane from Midlifebloggers took this picture of Lacy and me in my room. Tres plush:
And you should see the view from the elevator. Oh wait, you may have already seen it from my panorama post the other day.
I have been in love with the St. Francis Tower elevator since my college days when I first discovered that thrill ride. It shoots up toward the sky and after you pass the 8th floor or so, the lights inside the elevator turn off and the outside wall falls away and you get this sudden explosion of a view of San Francisco. Wow!
(click to enlarge)
I took Lacy up and she just bleated with pure joy. At least I think that’s what she was doing.
You simply MUST take this elevator if you find yourself near Union Square. And take it all the way to the top. Thirty-two floors or something. Then you press the LOBBY button and hope it doesn’t stop at all. You’ll probably have to do this at 3:00am because the elevators are frickin’ busy these days. I was going to record video as I plummeted down to the lobby floor so you could see for yourself the exhilarating wonder ride that is the tower elevator at the St. Francis. But people kept stopping it and getting off on different floors and it ruined any chance of getting good footage. Inconsiderate jerks.
So like I said, if you are ever in the neighborhood. At 3 o’clock in the morning. And you shoot down the elevator shaft from the 32nd floor without interruption, then at about the 15th floor, you want to press your forehead to the glass with your head tilted down. I don’t want to spoil the surprise of what happens, but if you have a heart condition, then you might not want to attempt it. And if you got all queasy on the ride up to the top floor, then maybe you won’t be as thrilled with this ride as I, in which case forget I said anything.
By the way, have you ever been to Union Square in San Francisco?
Yes, Union Square. Home of the big ass Macy’s and the Burger Bar where fellow blogger Tonya ordered this colorful gem for dessert.
By the way, that’s not a burger. That was a dessert item. I think it was cheesecake or something.
But the little rat is real.
And because I didn’t want to feel like an old lady who had to go to bed early to get her beauty winks, I schlepped down the road with a couple of ladies who were kind enough to walk slow so I could keep up with them. The concierge had recommended this speakeasy type looking bar called Rickhouse on Kearny St.
I think I sprouted twelve grey hairs walking into the joint, but I was determined to cut a rug somewhere in this City by the Bay, by golly.
Unfortunately, this place didn’t have a rug to speak of.
Or a dance floor.
Or a chair.
But it was very “hip”. At least I think it was, what do I know? They made these fancy custom cocktails. I ordered something pink that began with a B that contained basil. It was a Bossanova, or a Bueno Notte or some such Latin sounding long word.
Man was I “with it”.
These are the young ladies with whom I painted the town red.
Rachel and Gabrielle
These sweet young things who apparently have fake IDs tolerated me as I regaled them for hours about the good ol’ days, back in the 70s when there was no internet. Or cell phones. Or sidewalks. Or electricity. Oops, wait - that’s the 1770s, I went too far. But that’s what you get when you take me out drinking: An overcompensating pack of lies.
