Tales of the Partial Froomies Trip to San Francisco, Intersession 2010 PART FOUR, and final

Wednesday, January 27th
Our fourth day was unlike all the others in that our agency was compromised. Just a bit, and sometimes in a good way.
See, back in the day, Roommate J had a friend she EMTed with. We'll call her Doctor E. Doctor E was just a med student back then, but now she's a resident at a super secret location in San Francisco. Roommate J got in touch with her and we decided we'd have dinner with her. Since she had a car, she would pick us up at seven at the De Young Museum and then take us to dinner and give us a ride back to the hotel afterward. This was the plan.
We decided that we would spend the morning wandering around Haight-Ashbury, the afternoon in Golden Gate Park, and the early evening in the De Young. The plan was perfect, foolproof.
And then we got off the bus. The Haight was emphatically not us, so I suggested headed straight to Golden Gate Park and finding somewhere to read (by now we were smart enough to bring our books). We walked out of the Haight, feeling a bit like my wannabe-hippie-but-sadly-too-wholesome mother. After traversing a corner of Golden Gate Park with more homeless men per square foot than they have under the trees in Santa Monica we found the main drag, and started following the signs to the "Japanese Tea Garden," praying for overpriced snacks. On our way there we encountered the Kew-like Conservatory of Flowers and the AIDS Memorial Grove. Finally we made our way to the Japanese Tea Garden, which had enough bonsai trees (mysteriously labeled "Asian Dwarf Trees"), raked pebbles, and koi to satisfy both the casual and the ardent Japanophile. So we were satisfied, especially when we found the tea shop, where I ordered a pastry in the shape of a fish, oozing chocolate from the inside. We ate there and then wandered around the garden, and then we wandered around the Botanical Garden down the road. And then we read a little and did more wandering. At this point we were sick of wandering and decided to walk over to the conveniently located De Young.
The thing is, at this point it was only 2:00.
Also, we hadn't been in touch with Doctor E for a couple days and wanted to do a final check. Roommate J went to reach for her phone and instead came up with a horror-struck expression. The phone with Doctor E's number was back at the hotel, charging merrily. My first reaction was to immediately get back on the bus and go back to the hotel to get the phone. Then I remembered something wonderful. Over the break, my family upgraded. I know, I know, how could a family so awesome be in need of any kind of upgrade? Relax. This was a phone upgrade. I now find myself in posession of a Blackberry. Cha-CHING! So we got on Facebook and, mercifully, Doctor E is one of those people who has their cell phone number up there for all the world to see. So while Roommate J beat herself up (nearly literally, so I didn't feel the need to add anything of my own), we waited for the page to load and got her number.
AND THEN. Roommate J called her. It turns out Doctor E had had her car broken into and she was dealing with paperwork and the mechanic and the DMV and might be running late. She would call us back, she said.
We went inside the De Young and I said something to the effect of, "We're going to get something to eat at the Café. I'm starving." This was not especially true (well, except for the fact that we WERE going to get something to eat or heads would roll) but I felt myself getting crabby, a sure sign that a de Plume is hungry and just doesn't know it yet, and wanted to nip it in the bud if we were going to be stuck in an art museum for hours.
Now, I have realized, in past years, that the art museum allergy of my childhood was just a reaction to being taken around art museums by my art historian mother. I actually like the things, but still, going through on an empty stomach was not a good idea.
On the way into the café we checked out the ticket prices and came across our latest stumbling block. Museum access was $35. Now, Roommate J, being from DC is used to free museums and I, being my father's daughter as well, was not about to pay $35 dollars for anything I was lukewarm about to begin with. We looked at each other and headed straight into the café, where we bought some sandwiches, played a few rounds of MASH, and debated over what to do next. Now it was 4:00.
We headed outside and drafted a phone call to Doctor E. Yes. We actually did this. Don't judge us. You can't just call up someone at the DMV with a list of demands; they're liable to kill you telepathically. Our suggestion was that we head back to Chinatown and she could meet us there later and we would take her out to dinner and pay for parking (or public transportation, if her car was still out of commission). Of course none of this was a problem when Roommate J actually called her, so we found the right bus (this took a while), made our first and last transfer, which involved a mad sprint across a busy street, and were back at the Hotel des Arts for much needed relaxation.
Relaxation involved watching THE MOST DISTURBING show ever about 4 year old beauty pagent contestants. It was on HGTV. Go figure.
(Also: OH THE GUILT, the State of the Union was on every other channel.)
Around 8:00 Doctor E called and announced that she would be picking us up in her parent's car with a friend to go see a band perform at a bar in the Mission district. This lined up with the spirit of adventure we were attempting to keep up throughout the four-ish days, so we said es, awesome, and went downstairs to wait for her by the Dragon Gate.
I give Doctor E credit for driving a Mercedes to the Mission on the same day her own car was broken into. The street where we parked was bustling, though, and Doctor E's friend, Doctor R, informed us that the Mission, at least this part, was hipster heaven. This explained the large amounts of plaid, Converse, and lens-less glasses we saw. The bar, which was called Amnesia (I know) where the band was playing was jammed--standing room only, in the doorway--and it was dark red and dark wood and the bartender was wearing a fedora. It was spectacular. The band was playing gypsy jazz, which involves an accordion, so I was happy. Doctors E and R got beer and Doctor E got Roommate J to share some of her Maredsous with her. When the band went on break we went to a burger joint a few doors down for a late-night burger. Let me give you a hint: if you are at all squeamish, and I'm not, don't eat dinner with three doctor-types. It's just not a good idea.
We headed back to the bar for the band's last few songs and Doctor E ordered an Anchor Steam, which is apparently only okay to drink on tap in San Francisco. She offered some to me and at first I turned it down but then I thought, sure, why not, so I took a sip.
Friends, I'm not saying I've become a beer fan, or that I would ever pick Anchor Steam over another beverage I already knew and liked, but I can safely say that I have found a beer I like, which is nice. I know I won't be disinherited now.
Doctor E drove us back and we thanked her and took showers before heading to bed.

Thursday, January 28th
Travel day! We arose, ate breakfast, and then hung out for a while before deciding we would be better off hanging out at the airport, so we packed up, checked out, and walked back down to the BART station. After getting on the right train, we sat back and had the shock of our lives: sunlight, streaming in the BART windows.
The airport was sunny too, and hot. It was weird. Our flight was only delayed by an hour which, when Newark is involved at all, was amazing.
Highlights from the flight:
-Playing film dub with the in-flight movie, the remake of Fame.
-Reading L.A. Confidential. I loved that movie. Now it doesn't even rank.
We arrived at Newark without incident and, of course, missed the train by a hair. Waiting for the next one wasn't too painful and we got on and found seats together with room for backpack and bag and Roommate J's suitcase. It was only then that we realized there was a man standing at the front of the compartment, preaching and holding a large drink from Jamba Juice. Corporate sponsorship? Oh well. On NJ Transit, even at 11:30, if you find a seat you keep it. Plus, after the past five days we were used to adventure and accidental discoveries, not to mention crazy people. We settled in.

THE END