San Francisco, CA USAApril 16, 2007
N 37°48.049
W 122°24.580
We popped out of the Montgomery Street BART station in San Francisco right around 10:00 AM local time after being on a flight for close to 16 hours. Luckily, we lived in luxury for budget travelers on the trip home; we were able to upgrade to business class where the seats lean back almost 135 degrees allowing us to get some much needed sleep during the long flight. We even grabbed a few more hours on the way from Dallas to San Francisco.
Feeling as fresh as possible we exited BART, knowing our way without the guidance of a map, and made our way directly to Kearny Street to grab a bus. The 30 Stockton, my “favorite” bus line in San Francisco, pulled up and was headed in our direction. As are all 30 Stocktons, it was standing-room-only with people headed to Chinatown to do their daily shopping—at least in this direction we didn’t have the smell of hot Chinese food and live fish, we were only left with the fragrance of mothballs, halitosis and sweat permeating the bus.
We stood on the very crowded bus with our big packs on our back; willing
to move towards the back of the bus that was practically empty, but unable to get there since others weren’t cooperating. Oh well, we thought… this was the last thing standing between us and our first cup of coffee at Café Trieste.
Café Trieste was actually our second stop after dropping off our backpacks in the garage of our building. Since our place is being rented right now, we weren’t able to actually go into the unit. We felt homeless as we hid in the back of the garage, quickly putting on fresh clothes and a new layer of deodorant before making our familiar walk down the hill to Trieste.
We were instantly greeted with big hugs by our friend Paul as soon as we walked in the door of Trieste. Moments later our buddy Mike T. walked in the door. We called Mike as we got off the bus and he knew exactly where to meet us. Since the weather in the City was perfect, we sat outside and drank our first Africano (a double shot of espresso with steamed milk) in over 80 days, and watched the people outside—some familiar faces, others new. We didn’t see any of the known characters from “All Over Coffee” like Earl, Mo or Mark with the dogs, but there was plenty of neighborhood personality to keep us entertained for a few hours while we sipped our drinks.
The group at the table on the sidewalk next to us must have had a “prescription” for marijuana. One of the guys had a very convenient crochet necklace for his pipe and a separate necklace for his lighter. At one point they pulled out some bud so strong, we could smell it from 10 feet away—they weren’t passing any our way though!
After we finished our first Africano a man wearing a white, filthy, tattered dress shirt, a pair of shorts, a thick black leather dog collar on his ankle, and a grimy pair of socks that only covered his toes staggered by us. He was mumbling incoherently under his breath, and had obviously been “enjoying” a substance much stronger than the green-bud being shared at the table next to us. We saw our “new friend” a bit later, having a conversation with the leaves as he wandered through Washington Square. He appeared a bit more haggard and was without his fashionable leather anklet—who knows what happend to it in such a short time.
Marc, Mike and I smiled and looked at each other and almost in unison said… “Welcome home!”
W 122°24.580
We popped out of the Montgomery Street BART station in San Francisco right around 10:00 AM local time after being on a flight for close to 16 hours. Luckily, we lived in luxury for budget travelers on the trip home; we were able to upgrade to business class where the seats lean back almost 135 degrees allowing us to get some much needed sleep during the long flight. We even grabbed a few more hours on the way from Dallas to San Francisco.
Feeling as fresh as possible we exited BART, knowing our way without the guidance of a map, and made our way directly to Kearny Street to grab a bus. The 30 Stockton, my “favorite” bus line in San Francisco, pulled up and was headed in our direction. As are all 30 Stocktons, it was standing-room-only with people headed to Chinatown to do their daily shopping—at least in this direction we didn’t have the smell of hot Chinese food and live fish, we were only left with the fragrance of mothballs, halitosis and sweat permeating the bus.
We stood on the very crowded bus with our big packs on our back; willing
to move towards the back of the bus that was practically empty, but unable to get there since others weren’t cooperating. Oh well, we thought… this was the last thing standing between us and our first cup of coffee at Café Trieste.Café Trieste was actually our second stop after dropping off our backpacks in the garage of our building. Since our place is being rented right now, we weren’t able to actually go into the unit. We felt homeless as we hid in the back of the garage, quickly putting on fresh clothes and a new layer of deodorant before making our familiar walk down the hill to Trieste.
We were instantly greeted with big hugs by our friend Paul as soon as we walked in the door of Trieste. Moments later our buddy Mike T. walked in the door. We called Mike as we got off the bus and he knew exactly where to meet us. Since the weather in the City was perfect, we sat outside and drank our first Africano (a double shot of espresso with steamed milk) in over 80 days, and watched the people outside—some familiar faces, others new. We didn’t see any of the known characters from “All Over Coffee” like Earl, Mo or Mark with the dogs, but there was plenty of neighborhood personality to keep us entertained for a few hours while we sipped our drinks.
The group at the table on the sidewalk next to us must have had a “prescription” for marijuana. One of the guys had a very convenient crochet necklace for his pipe and a separate necklace for his lighter. At one point they pulled out some bud so strong, we could smell it from 10 feet away—they weren’t passing any our way though!
After we finished our first Africano a man wearing a white, filthy, tattered dress shirt, a pair of shorts, a thick black leather dog collar on his ankle, and a grimy pair of socks that only covered his toes staggered by us. He was mumbling incoherently under his breath, and had obviously been “enjoying” a substance much stronger than the green-bud being shared at the table next to us. We saw our “new friend” a bit later, having a conversation with the leaves as he wandered through Washington Square. He appeared a bit more haggard and was without his fashionable leather anklet—who knows what happend to it in such a short time.
Marc, Mike and I smiled and looked at each other and almost in unison said… “Welcome home!”
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