Monthly Archives: March 2012

Our San Francisco Trip, Part 1. Or, That Time Alyssa Had a Panic Attack

This is not the actual street we were on, though it's pretty close. I discovered it is IMPOSSIBLE to find a photo of Lombard St that *isn't* the twisty section.

In late January, Jonathan and I went to San Francisco to hang out with his friend Tristan, and to go to wOOtstock*. (You can relive the drive down there with us here.)

Saturday morning I woke up around 8, despite not going to sleep until nearly 1. It’s hard for me to sleep in nowadays, unless I’m up reeaaallly late. Once the snoring beast I married woke up, we got ready and I consulted my magic box to figure out where to get some good breakfast. I had recently bought a brand of flavored coffee that smelled and tasted like french toast, so I was dead set on getting some of the real stuff. A couple clicks on my fancy-pants tablet, and I had found a little hole-in-the-wall place called The Doctor’s Lounge**; it’s a bar at night, and a brunch and cartoons place Saturday and Sunday morning. It was within walking distance, so we meandered the four blocks there, enjoying the wonderful warm weather and talking about what we wanted to do that day.

We walk in, and in the back of the restaurant I spotted an old style telephone room; a tiny room with a phone and a soundproof door, with the obligatory TELEPHONE sign over the doorjamb. The nerd that I am hoped they’d have SOMETHING Doctor Who related, which I mentioned to the owner as we sat down and he began making us two cups of  incredibly strong drip coffee.

“To be honest, we thought about painting it blue and putting a police box sign on it. Instead it’s our “original smell” room. When we got the place, it was wall to wall carpet – even the walls were carpet! When we remodeled, we got rid of all the carpet, except for in there. It’s got a pretty funky smell to it. Not bad, just different! Like cigar smoke and age. Pretty cool, really, like a time capsule. “

We ordered our breakfast and I got my french toast. It was really good french toast. I don’t know what kind of bread or spices the cook uses, but it was definitely the best freaking french toast I’ve had in a long time. I fancy myself a decent iPhone-photographer, so I took an artsy picture of my coffee.

Have some coffee with your cream, why don't you?

After stuffing ourselves with delicious food, we waddled back to Tristan’s apartment. He was ready to go, so we piled into the Volvo and navigated through the city to the Exploratorium. We got a little lost†, and ended up taking a bit of a scenic route down a very steep hill through a very expensive part of the city. The houses were gorgeous; gingerbread and pastel colors, and a view to die for.

Eventually we arrived at the Exploratorium, and spent most of the afternoon playing with science-y things, goofing around, and generally acting like 12-year-olds. It was awesome. I had an especially fun time playing with the high-speed water drip camera, trying to catch the droplet in midair. Jonathan tried to make it look like a…uh…well, it’s not important. We also encountered some lonely assassins, but thankfully there were enough people there looking at them that they stayed quantum-locked††. What they do at night, I have no idea.

Around 2 o’clock, we started getting hungry, so we set off walking in search of sustenance. We first tried a place several blocks from the Palace of Fine arts, but it was horribly snobby and pretentious and I wanted nothing to do with it. They also wanted to charge $24 for a burger so we said “yeah right” and scooted right out of there. On our walk back to the car, I encountered a mini-TARDIS. Of course I took a picture. And of course I tweeted about it.

One would *hope* it's bigger on the inside

We got back in the car and set off in search of a reasonably-priced joint to find food. We were optimistic, happy, having fun chatting and checking out the streets around us.

At least, we were for the first hour.

If you’re used to living in a suburban or rural area like we are, where you can drive 5 miles in about the same amount of minutes, it’s quite unpleasant to drive 5 miles and have it take over an hour.

It’s also quite unpleasant when you realize too late that you’re about to drive up Russian Hill via Lombard St (between Polk and Larkin) and the road is WET because of some construction on the sidewalk. It’s EXTREMELY UNPLEASANT when you are driving up said hill in stop and go traffic and your tires are not getting any traction because of said water and you’re freaking out because you’re most certainly about to slide down the ridiculously steep hill and hit the guy in the Subaru behind you.

This is not the actual street we were on, though it's pretty close. I discovered it is IMPOSSIBLE to find a photo of Lombard St that *isn't* the twisty section.

deep breath

I’m pretty sure the “oh crap” handle in the rear passenger seat has permanent indentations from me gripping it so tightly. I think that was my first panic attack ever. I was seriously freaking out, so as soon as we got to the top of the hill we made a right and kept looking for somewhere to eat.

We drove for another 20-30 minutes, spent another 20 minutes looking for a parking spot, then decided to just hoof it and find some stinking food. First place we tried was a bar that didn’t serve food of any kind. Next place was a shady Chinese place that I was certain made drugs in the back room. Third place didn’t open for another 15 minutes, and was overpriced. So we kept walking.

We lost Tristan at this point. He really had to go to the bathroom, so he took off in some unknown direction and told us to call him when we found some grub. Three blocks and several creepy bums later, Jonathan and I landed in a sandwich place. I was grumpy and achy and unpleasant, and he was no better. We called Tristan to discover he had found a bathroom and settled in at an Irish pub a couple blocks away, and told us to head over after we had eaten. I ordered some form of meat and cheese on bread, and scarfed away; food is food at this point, even when it decides to shred the inside of your mouth‡.

Also, cucumber water is weird. Who thinks of this stuff?!

We finish eating and drag ourselves back outside. Tristan tells us where the pub is, and we set off. It’s not too far away, and in the same direction as our car, which by this time probably has a parking ticket since it took so stinking long to find food. After we collect T, we head back to the car and drive home. It’s pretty quiet, because for all the fun of the morning, the afternoon was a total downer.

After we get back to the apartment, the guys start playing Scrabble and I settle down with a book for a while. I overhear their conversation while they’re playing and decide to join the next game. Playing “Words with Friends” with Anne, Jeff, and my Mom hasn’t really improved my Scrabble skills, but I still end up beating them both with ease.

This improves my mood significantly.

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I’m going to stop here and save the second half for another post, since this one is getting exceptionally long.

* If you’re a regular follower you may remember this rather hilarious post about me. It may or may not be entirely true.
** It makes me furiously happy that the title of the website is done in TARDIS blue.
† My fault, I admit. I’m terrible at navigation.
†† NERD ALERT!!!
‡ Note to self: Dutch Crunch is evil.

There has got to be a better way.

I am very disgusted right now.

I was driving my dad back to his work, after he dropped his car off for some repairs at my auto shop. We were casually chatting, talking about the weather, and about me driving to Reno this weekend to visit Jonathan. We arrive at his shop, and as he’s getting out of the car, he leans back down and mentions one of the projects he and his crew had earlier this morning.

You see, my dad works for the local Sheriff’s department. He is in charge of taking minimum security inmate work crews around the county and doing various jobs. They’re free cheap labour; instead of hiring expensive contractors to do plumbing/construction/painting/whatever, they find guys in the min. security barracks who are capable, and have them do the work.

This morning, he and his crew had to box up, haul to the dump, and dispose of 8 TONS of counterfeit goods. Hats, coats, shoes, purses, etc etc etc. They were followed by the Secret Service to make certain no one snagged a box out of their trucks. Those boxes full of clothes are going to be destroyed at the dump.

Not recycled.

Not donated to the needy.

DESTROYED.

I was am appalled. It’s cold in Northern California today; when I left my house this morning it was snowing. Now at work,  I’m sitting inside wearing two pairs of socks, a coat, and I have a heater behind my desk. I’m still freezing. I can only imagine how the people who live on the streets must feel right now.

I understand that manufacturing and selling counterfeit goods hurts the original designers. I GET THAT. I was a fashion merchandising major, remember? However, this blatant and unnecessary waste really bothers me.

If the clothes aren’t donated, then why isn’t the fabric recycled? Textile recycling of brand new, unworn clothing is easy -

“Fiber reclamation mills grade incoming material into type and color. The color sorting means no re-dying has to take place, saving energy and pollutants. The textiles are shredded into “shoddy” fibers and blended with other selected fibers, depending on the intended end use of the recycled yarn. The blended mixture is carded to clean and mix the fibers and spun ready for weaving or knitting. The fibers can also be compressed for mattress production. Textiles sent to the flocking industry are shredded to make filling material for car insulation, roofing felts, loudspeaker cones, panel linings and furniture padding. “

from Wikipedia

via http://www.sustainable-fashion.com

Ok, so they can take the clothes and shred them and make car seat padding out of them. That’s a noble enough venture; it saves money and spares us from using more chemical pollutants than necessary. But I just don’t think that’s enough! So many people in this country call on others to think of the homeless, the needy, the vulnerable….yet this wastefulness continues.

In the UK, they’ve got the right idea. A charity called His Church has taken on the task of collecting and rebranding (covering over “designer” labels) counterfeit goods, and distributing them to the needy.

Here’s an excerpt from the BBC article:

“Every year customs and trading standards spend a fortune on storing fake clothes while waiting for a court decision, and then once the items have been proved to be fake the authorities have to fork out further for incineration or landfill costs.

His Church has removed all such costs and pass on the high quality goods to some 250 homeless centres and women’s shelters across the country.

Even items which are too heavily branded to be patched over with the His Church logo are not wasted.

“We have permission to send them outside the EU, often to Africa,” says Richard (Humphrey, charity coordinator). “But we have a duty of care and trust. We have to keep an audit trail of every single item of clothing, where it’s come from, exactly where it goes – even down to a pair of underpants.”"

I love this. I would be ecstatic to see this implemented here in the United States.
The question is…how do we do it? I want to know: How does one convince the people in power to make a change for the better, to aid our fellow man while reducing the waste of good materials? Please, someone help get the ball rolling!