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This entry is the beginning of a series that will fill in the blanks between now and since when we left for this adventure. San Francisco. We saddled up to the curb in San Francisco International, yoga mats over our shoulder, a backpack for each of us, a sax, a guitar, and another hefty duffel. Adam Haleck came speeding up to the curb to pick us up in his new and fully loaded Jetta. Adam is the husband of Kim Haleck, a missionary friend from Bordeaux. He dropped us off at our Motel, The Mosser. The Mosser is located on Fourth and Market Street, for any who are familiar with San Francisco. For those who aren't, it is a posh location for hotels. We entered the doors into a time warp. The building and architecture was circa 1920s but the decor was beyond this decade. The ambiance was comfortable and somehow managed the juxtaposition of styles perfectly. This balance was also apparent in the price of the hotel. We were able to stay three nights for $60 a night. we stuffed ourselves, all our bags, and about 4 other hotel guests (my last bag in the elevator only made it in with the help of a shoe horn), into an old elevator and ascended up to the seventh floor, the elevator stopping slowly and deliberately on each floor. The last two floors' journey was spent listening to the head maid and the handyman argue over whether or not he had changed a light bulb in one of the rooms she needed to clean. We entered room 736 and to find a cozy, small room that held a commanding view of the city. It was the perfect urban vista. The walls were a smooth white plaster with carefully selected prints of microphone art hung on the wall. The bed was teaming with pillows. On one corner post was a small television set from which you could watch TV, order room service, use the internet, find local attractions, find the nearest bank, arrange an airport shuttle, order a dry cleaning service, etc. On the other corner was a small desk upon which was a small lap-top looking device that served as a CD player, world clock, alarm clock, and about 12 other things I can't remember. In the room, there was a sink and mirror in the corner. There were double, double paned windows to keep the temperature and sound the way you like it. In the corner was a closet with designer robes to strut around the hall with on your way to the shared bathroom down the hall. Don't be put off by the shared bathrooms. Every time I walked by, I swear I saw someone either cleaning the bathroom or on their way to clean it. Like the room, the bathrooms were cozy and small. Warning: this hotel, while ultra chic and an amazing deal, especially considering its location, is not for claustrophobics! This fit our personalities perfectly. It was completely void of that sterile Motel 8 feeling. You know, you could be in supposedly the nicest hotel in town and still find the same cups by the sink, except in place of the plastic ones like at motel 8, they are glass--ooh! And you'd go to sit on the bed, pull back the covers and find that same, mossy blanket that the Giddeons must leave in every bed as they place their bible in the drawer by the bed. What I'm getting at is they are all the same sterile hotel in a box. But not the mosser. It was affordable and had copious chic vibes. Once settled into our hotel, we began to explore the city. Sunday night, (October 13th) my mission friend, Kim, invited Celeste and I to her studio in South Market district for dinner. Great food, apartment, and conversation. The next morning we began to really explore. fortunately, this time in San Fran, we didn't have our bikes. We did a lot of walking and bussing. We felt like ignoramuses when at the end of our stay, we figured out that the greatest city on earth had a subway system. We thought it was a bus only town! This trip was definitely one of culinary tourism. Having been consulted by friends whose opinion on food is considered sacred, we made reservations for two different restaurants, Millennium and Roxanne's. Others left us with great suggestions. We were not lacking for good, healthy, fun dining opportunities.Millennium was in the lobby of a snobbish motel called the Abigail, I believe. It was dimly lit, every one was sporting a jacket and a tie. I was wearing a jacket--a hip leather jacket that I scored at Dennimville a week earlier for 15 bone! Everything was organic. Chef Eric was standing working his culinary magic in an open part of the restaurant. He was very calm and looked like he was making art. This is very different than my experience working in a kitchen where if none of the cooks were sent to the hospital, quit, or set off the fire alarm, it was a good night. The cheapest thing on Millenium's menu was around $18. I ordered the house soup and Celeste had some spring rolls. We nibbled on multi grain bread and shared a fruit desert--coconut something, with kiwi, and something I remember being cold and sweet. The other for which we made reservations was Roxanne's. This was even more elite than Millennium's. We were very lucky to even get a reservation two weeks in advance. Apparently Roxanne's is so elite it isn't even in the same town as all the other elite San Francisco health junky restaurants. This one required us to travel on Ferry to a town across the bay called Larkspur. When we told Kim and Adam about our reservations we had made in Larkspur they replied, "where?". Our reservations were for 5:15. We made it to Larkspur without any problem but our problem came as we realized that we were dependant upon public transportation and we had only a slight clue on how to get there. The buses were not coming regularly and so we figured out where our restaurant was and began to walk. Once we realized that it would take us another hour to get to our destination and our reservation was in 15 minutes, we panicked. We had no bus, there were no taxis in sight, it was two miles to go and to top it off, Celeste had to pee like nothing she's ever had to do in her life. After running to a grocery store for Celeste's relief, we used our last resort: we began thumbing a ride. It was about 10 minutes and a man pulled over and drove us the 2 miles down the road. He was really nice. I named him Jeff because he looks like a Jeff. I am sure that he thinks it was odd to pick up two hitchhikers and deposit them at the most elite restaurant in town. What ever. Good karma for Jeff not to mention a good story. So. . . Roxanne's: Not only is this joint all organic, but is even organic cotton for the napkins, and tablecloths. It buys local produce to support local farmers. All the timber in the structure is reused wood meaning that it was previously used in other structures. It uses energy conscious lighting and has a solar panel on the roof that generates much of the electricity for the place. And to top everything else off: (drum roll please) IT IS ALL RAW. Yep, they don't cook anything. You'd never guess it, either. Why, you may ask? The idea for those who aren't familiar with raw cooking, is that by cooking vegetables and things, sometimes a lot of the nutrients are lost. So by keeping it raw, you retain, a lot of those for a more healthy meal. Roxanne's keeps the nutrients and loses none of the heat, meaning that those dishes that are supposed to be warm, are at least warmed, though they weren't cooked in the first place. This is one of those places that you always picture where food comes out on your plate and your afraid to eat it because it looks like someone should have titled it, it is so artistic and perfect. The prices were out of this world, $39.00 a plate!!! I had tortilla soup, a Mediterranean meal (falafel balls, olive leaf rolls, and I can't remember what) and Celeste had more spring rolls with this fantastic lasagna. Coming back from Roxanne's was even more challenging than getting there. By the time we were done with our meals, there REALLY weren't any busses coming nor were there any taxis and we had to be at the Ferry terminal for the last ferry that would leave at 7:40. We hopped on the first bus that was going in the general direction that we wanted to go, regardless of its final destination. When a nice woman, Karen, on the bus saw that we were desperate enough to hop on a bus just to go a few blocks down the street, she told us to get off with her, that she was coming from work and her car was parked near, and that she'd love to drop us off at the ferry terminal. Again, saved by the locals. The next day. We woke up and made our way to the Korean embassy. We had mailed all of our information but it had not arrived by Tuesday afternoon. We were sweating bullets because we had a flight Wednesday afternoon so we had to have our visas by Wednesday morning at the absolute latest. We walked in and the man behind the desk calmly congratulated us as he gave us our visas. We were on our way. As always we are always in search for a good place to do yoga. We were walking up Haight Street and ran into a place that called itself the sacred space. It should have been called the scared place because we were so scared to continue the yoga routine that we were doing, being led by a man who acted like he escaped from an asylum, that we left before the class was even done. The next day, however, we found just the place we've always dreamt of finding. It was called the yoga loft. We showed up at 9:30 am and were the only students there. We followed our instructor, Witney, a woman who looked to be about our age, extremely nice and non-threatening, into a beautiful, huge yoga studio. It was hard wood floors, there was art on the walls, beautiful music playing, it was warm, and it had windows that looked out into a garden. Perfect. We followed a classical Astanga workout. We sweat like crazy. We stretched. We were quite familiar with most of the workout but it was fun to have it presented to us in a sequence. We even got to chant in the beginning. I always feel like an idiot doing it, but I bet if I knew what I was saying, I would have a different feeling. After an hour and a half, Witney left us in final relaxation pose as she sped off to catch a flight somewhere. We just stayed there in that room, in that pose for about a half an hour, meditating and considering ourselves lucky to have found such a great yoga studio. Ah, San Francisco. San Francisco [2002-11-03]
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