Our June Trip: San Francisco!

My friends, if I absolutely had to go live in a big city somewhere, San Francisco would be high on the list. At least, that’s what I’ve been thinking since our trip there last month.

The thought struck me immediately as our taxi waited at an intersection with Market Street, on our way to our hotel our first day there: I noticed that all up and down Market, the “main street” of San Francisco, at regular intervals, there were rainbow flags. Big ones. As far as the eye could see.

June, of course, is Pride month internationally (it commemorates the Stonewall riots that occurred in New York in June 1969, which mark the beginning of the modern gay rights movement). And San Francisco has one of the biggest LGBT pride celebrations in the world, with a huge parade that goes down, yes, Market Street. Everybody goes.

I was fortunate enough to have an internship in San Francisco during the summer of 1990, so I got to attend one of those festivals. I saw the parade and everything. By the end of that summer, I was practically a “resident” of the City.

(I used public transportation a lot!)

(But even though I used public transportation a lot, I still had a big hill to walk up to reach my house! That burned a lot of calories!)

People like to talk about how wonderful America is—about our diverse population, the immigrants cherishing their freedom and opportunities, and so on. It’s not so much of a “melting pot” as it is a stew, where people from various ethnicities and cultures blend harmoniously, yet retain distinctions from the “old country.” To be proud Americans, yet retain what is precious and colorful about our roots. At least, that’s the goal, I think.

Of all the places I’ve seen, San Francisco seems most “American” in this way. It is proud of its diversity. It goes well beyond tolerance—the citizens of that city seem pleased to have cultivated a place where everyone can be who they are.

Of course I wax nostalic—I know it’s not a utopia. But how can I not be irreversibly impressed, and deeply moved, when I come from the Midwest? Sue and I don’t dare fly our rainbow flag outdoors in our neighborhood, in our city. It would be begging for vandalism, because too many Missourians think that it’s cool to put down gay people. I know it will be many, many years before Jefferson City puts rainbow flags all along High Street!

Anyway, you just have to imagine how it feels to a gay person from the homophobic Midwest to arrive in a city that goes out of its way to show you that you are not just tolerated, but valued as a contributing member of society.

Here's another example. This is an inscription on one of the walks at the AIDS Memorial Grove at Golden Gate Park. The grove is an exceptionally beautiful, peaceful place. The city dedicated park space for this memorial grove.

Well, that’s enough words for now. This trip, we were flat-out tourists, and we had a great time trying to see as much as possible in the three days we were there.

We rode the cable cars!

We had a breakfast at the venerable (and touristy!) Sears Fine Food, on Powell Street across from the Sir Francis Drake! (I had actually never eaten there before, and you know what? It was really good! They deserve their reputation!)

Then there is the big Asian influence. Yes, Chinatown is always rather fun, but so are lots and lots of other Asian areas, such as Japantown, and the Japanese Garden at Golden Gate Park (this is the entrance of it):

Because of our interest in Asian art, we also had to visit the Asian Art Museum! (When I lived there, this building was the main branch of the public library!) The collections are spectacular and varied, including a wide geographical range, and ancient through contemporary works. Very impressive!

Do I even have to mention the excellent Asian food?

With all the delicious chow available, San Franciscans should be grateful there are so many hills to climb, and beaches to walk. Even when it's windy!

Anybody familiar with this part of the coast ought to know these flowers: ice plants! These are some of the plants that grow closest to the beach. They smile at you coming and going.

Another thing this little tourist was eager to see was the rebuilt Steinhart Aquarium, part of the California Academy of Sciences (and also in Golden Gate Park). The last time we were in San Francisco (2005), they had torn down the venerable old aquarium and had moved to temporary new quarters, and this new building was basically only a big hole in the ground.

So it was a real treat to see the "finished product," a "green" building with up-to-date displays and interpretive information. I'm not convinced that video screens, which need electricity to work, are in any way better than printed signs, but what do I know. Still--the state-of-the-art aquaria was neat to see.

Here I am at the entryway to the new Steinhart. That above me is a life-size model of the jaws of a megalodon, a Cenozoic shark that was 52 feet long and lived in ocean waters worldwide. The teeth are about 7 inches long. Whoa, nelly!

The aquarium is on the lower level of the California Academy of Sciences, though some of the larger tanks are two stories high and can be seen from above and below. There's a nifty tunnel beneath one of these huge aquariums full of large freshwater species. If I lived in San Francisco again, I think I would come here to just sit on the bench and read.

In this big tank are three arapiamas, which, I think, are the very same fish that lived in the Steinhart back in 1990. I used to visit them! I have a special appreciation for arapiamas. Did you know they are the largest strictly freshwater fish in the world?

Okay, now, a disclaimer: In this post, and in the last one (about Florida), the BEST pictures are the ones taken by Sue! Mine are the pedestrian snapshots. Here's one of my pedestrian snapshots, of Sue as she's taking a real photo!

My abundant thanks to Sue for letting me post so many of her photos!

I Want to Be in That Number

First, an update on where I am these days, sort of, with the blog

At this point my blog is still taking shape—the focus (of course) is “me” and my observations and experiences, and sharing the things I like. That’s why it must have a focus also on the Ozarks, nature, and cooking and restaurants. That’s why it has to talk about being a fourth-generation German American living in the house my great-grandfather made, on the street where both my sets of grandparents lived most of their lives.

I have to admit that I would much rather spend time writing blogs than working, or working on things I am trying to work on, most of it mental work. Or cleaning house.

I still want to “finish” telling you about our Arkansas trip (particularly the Cliff House at the Arkansas “Grand Canyon”; the Fordyce Bathhouse at Hot Springs; and the wonderful music scene at Mountain View); and I want to write more about the Missouri River Lisbon Bottoms area. I’m feeling like I’m “getting way behind” in things I want to write about. I haven’t told you my favorite morel-hunting story. I haven’t told you the story about the Johnny irises, even though they’re almost finished blooming by now.

But this is the season to move all the plants out of the house, establish the flower beds, and cut the grass incredibly often. Plus all the usual work. I’ve just been really busy. And I don’t want my blog to become another one of those things on my “do list.”

So I hope you’ll bear with me being a little disorganized these days.

And now, the topic du jour

When you start a blog, one of the things Blogspot has you do is fill out your personal information or “profile” (which I really only sketched in the briefest way: “From Missourah,” etc.—I do intend to flesh that out a little more), but at least I could confidently list books and music I like, and under “music” I wrote that I like the “unpopular” kind.

Under that category I have to put “jazz.” I don’t want to have to put it into that category, but that’s where it has to go in this country. I guess because it is generally seen as fine art, which by definition excludes the largest, indiscriminate masses.

It is a strange and ironic thing that America’s indigenous musical art form, jazz, is largely unknown here in the States, whereas in Europe it is appreciated and known by all sorts of people. I hear.

Anyway, while we were driving around Arkansas the other weekend, I was playing a CD that had a mix of various southern-flavored music. Some of it was twangy country, some bluegrass, some soul, some blues, and some Dixieland. And one of the tunes was a sassy, swingin’ rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

My dad asked me to turn up the music. (Wow!) He wanted to listen to it. He explained that he had never heard of the song as a kid, and one year when he was at Boy Scout camp, one of the other scouts had a conversation with him. The scout had found out my dad plays the piano, and then asked, “Can you play ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’?” And my dad had to admit he’d never heard the song, and couldn’t play it.

And the boy had replied, “Well, you’re not a piano player then.” This is an interesting story to hear from my dad, who plays Chopin, Scarlatti, and Beethoven. Beautifully. When I think of him as a youngster, I imagine he must have been a lot like “Schroeder” in the Peanuts comic strip. Blond, smart, handsome, reserved, and totally focused on his classical music.

Yet one of the big theme songs of American jazz—this rousing, cross-cultural, spirited, jazzy march—had eluded him and no doubt others. Kids of my generation learned the song as elementary students in music class in the 1970s, when school music books included a multicultural selection.

I know that “political correctness” and “multiculturalism” are troublesome concepts for many Americans, but although we always run into trouble when such notions are bureaucratized, codified, and enforced, the basic impulse of inclusiveness, of welcome, of generosity and understanding and simple politeness, is a fine thing to have toward all who are different than ourselves.

When I try to imagine this country before Civil Rights and before schools and the media became more inclusive, I realize that the white majority had been robbing itself of the richness of our complex society. Segregation hurt the whites, too.

Meanwhile, I would wish that all Americans might know the bliss of Chopin, the majesty of Bach, the glories of Beethoven, as well. Even Sousa. These days, even the “white” canon seems endangered. How can we pass all this worthy music on to the next generation, beyond the elite few who attend music school?

And whom shall we blame for the current flood of vacuous music? MTV? Big media corporations? Or our own lazy appetites? Junk music is like junk food; the only solution for the problem is to make better personal choices every day, and to teach our children to be discriminating (in the good sense of the term).

By the way, Dad really seemed to enjoy hearing “When the Saints Go Marching In” that afternoon, as we drove through Little Rock and past the memorial sculpture of the Little Rock Nine.

Yeah.

As usual, no matter who you are or where your feet are planted this moment—on vacation, at funeral time, working or jobless, in the North or the South—that bouncy, magical song always hits the spot.