The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great......... Jack Kerouac

Morning after the day before

First, a correction and an apology. In my account yesterday of the party at Sausalito the impression was given that my wife Jane was taking part in, or initiated, an old Welsh country dance. That, I now understand, is incorrect. The Welsh, being a God-fearing people of great learning and moral probity, have never done old country dances. What happened yesterday was that my wife needed to go to the bathroom (or restroom, as it is known here) in a bit of a hurry. On her way there she caught the edge of a table leg and had to fling up her arms to keep her balance, thus giving the erroneous impression to other partygoers that she was country-dancing. I apologise to Jane and other readers who may have misconstrued that section.

I should add that I have signed the Bloggers’ Code of Conduct, which requires that corrections be posted as soon as possible so that readers can rest confident that all other parts of the blog are accurate and fair. I will, of course, abide by any ruling of the Blogger Complaints Commission. We Bloggers have our standards!

So, lawyers, I think you can stand down on this one!

But enough of that. Let’s move on. Although, hey Mr Digital Manager, Mr I-Can-Fix-Anything-as-long-as-it-doesn’t-have-four-legs-and-belches, what about the pictures I promised everyone? Please! Get over here and work your magic. The readers are getting restive.

Now, where was I? Yes, yesterday. Rising late – would you doubt it? – we have a glass of water and make our way to the Million Fishes collective where we are bidden for brunch by R&D. The streets in the largely Mexican area of the Mission are bustling with Sunday activity, barber’s shops spilling on to the side-walk, front-room churches are visible through grilles, smoking hot churritos glisten from oily baths, old wizened women are4 selling even older clothes, fruit ripens on deep trays, there is the sound of a brass instrument.

In the Million Fishes house spelt flour pancakes are being cooked, a bowl of fruit is on the table, R is doing a spinach and mushroom mix to go in the pancakes with goat’s cheese, D is stretching after a run, Bob Dylan is moaning in the background, a plump cat is snoozing on a rug, a giant installation of an emerging larva is being constructed, there is a pleasant murmur of young Californian voices as members of the house surface and move about. You know how it goes . . . . . with that slight questioning sing-songy lift at the end of each sentence? Yes, totally. Awesome! I’ll try to do it one day. Laura came, Bodhi came, Elias was there. Such interesting people to have met, if only briefly, talked to, heard a bit about.

In the afternoon we make our way to the City Lights bookshop in the North Beach area. When I used to read the Partisan Review in the early Sixties I first heard of the place where Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Neil Cassady and Co hung out. And it’s still going with the poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti (sp?), one of the counter-culture figures of that time, still there – although we didn’t see him.

We head for Russian Hill determined to take a ride in a cable car. More staggering rollercoaster views with the busy Bay glowing in the background. At last we clamber on to an overcrowded cable car and cling on as it descends noisily to Fisherman’s Wharf. The journey back by the Muni tram passes through Chinatown, a mile or more of old Shanghai transported to California.

I’m sorry, I’ve been getting a bit National Geographic.
This blog is not meant to do that. You can get travelogue elsewhere – or everywhere!

Today we are doing something special. We will try to find what happened to Jane’s two great aunts who came to California, possibly a century ago, after their father’s bankruptcy and suicide. We know little about them. Their surnames could have been Bishop or Lovegrove.

Was the promise of every cobbled alley great for them? It was for many who crossed the Atlantic after misfortune. I hope it was for them.