Shenanigans of the Traveling Sort

**A quick note: I have massive spacing issues...So, though there are indeed spaces between paragraphs, they're not all apparent...

Word to the wise: When planning a trip to San Francisco, don’t book a room in the Motel 6. This point was more than clear before we even pulled into the parking lot after an entire day in the car. We’d spent some time looking at redwood trees that morning. We wound our way through the windiest mountain pass in existence (10 mph curves are just a bit too much for even the strongest stomach). I was car sick. Alicia was car sick. Ryan was getting car sick. Mind you, he was driving.

We’d planned on driving the 40 miles from the Redwoods to a quaint little oceanfront town called Mendocino (of “Murder, She Wrote” fame). Initial plan was to get there around 2:30. Actual arrival time was 4:30ish. The town was adorable, but the streets were teeming with people in town for the music festival. The best part of the Mendocino visit (aside from some delicious $22.00-per-pound chocolate) was a conversation I overheard when getting out of the car. As I was opening my car door, I heard, “Well, since the Governator came into office…” One older gent was smoking a cigar and the other may or may not have been wearing leather chaps (my brain might have inserted those into the story for effect). A ripe debate about Schwarzenegger’s gubernatorial effectiveness then ensued.

Apparently, the only way into or out of Mendocino is through winding terrain. We knew we were in trouble when, in an attempt to take the straighter 101 down to San Fran, we came across a winding road sign…28 miles. The sign earlier that morning said only 22 miles. Steph groaned into the walkie talkie (a handy device when caravanning), “Oh boy.” Another word wasn’t mentioned until we were well past the winding.

Upon crossing the Golden Gate into San Francisco, we asked into the radio, “So what hotel are we looking for?” “Motel 6.” Slight groan on our part. We caravanned through Japan Town. Flipped a U-turn. Back through Japan Town. At this point, our windows were down and we were taking in the downtown San Francisco scene just as it was getting dark. While we were stopped at a light, a homeless-looking man road past on his bicycle…old school boom box strapped to it playing something of the early ’90s Snoop Dogg sort.

“It said it was near the theater district,” Steph had said. Unfortunately for us, it appeared to be the shady, nude theater district. When we finally pulled into the Motel 6 parking lot around 9:00 pm, amid sex shops, nude theaters, and liquor stores, we quickly decided that we needed a backup plan. However, there were a few details not in our favor. Detail #1: It was 9:00 pm on a Friday night. Detail #2: It was July 3rd—the night before July 4th. Detail #3: We already had reservations at the aforementioned hell-hole called Motel 6. Detail #4: We couldn’t get Wi-Fi on our laptop because we were in a cement parking lot, unwilling to leave until we had an idea of where we were going.

So, while Ryan’s sister (who typically lives in San Fran, but was vacationing in Utah) set about finding us a few rooms online, we sat in the parking lot and waited. We saw the most cliché image of a hooker ever: leopard stretchy pants, fur coat of some sort, curly messy hair. My niece saw a rat running across a pipe. We counted 12 cop cars in this span of time (without leaving the car), and multiple crazy people--including one with an odd bouquet of flowers…doing the crazy-person mumble as he walked past (“She’s, grr…uhh, mm..flowers…splicken, splacken…flowers...er, hmph”). We canceled the rooms in the Motel 6, and luckily weren’t charged because they needed the rooms.

Ryan’s sister eventually got us booked for a room with a king (for three of us) and a room with two doubles for Steph’s family of six. Realizing that we were lucky to find any available rooms at this point, we gladly accepted. Ryan’s sister then led us on a wild-goose-chase caravan through the streets of San Fran to our hotel (it was after 10:00 pm by this point). From Utah, she gave Alicia driving directions as we went. Alicia then recited them out loud, and I told them to Steph through the walkie talkie as they followed behind in their children-laden van from Utah.

“Left on Geary,” says Ryan’s sister.
“Left on Geary,” says Alicia.
“Left on Geary,” Angie says into the radio.
“So, left on Geary?” replies Steph.
“Yes, left on Geary,” I repeat.

This goes on for a few blocks, including sitting on cable car tracks when we shouldn’t have been, making a wide right turn around a semi in the turn lane, and the van running a very red light. It was so red that the other lights had turned green. We weaved around pedestrians who were crossing on red, green, and yellow lights.

“Right on Market,” says Ryan’s sister.
“Right on Market,” says Alicia to Angie.
“Right on Market,” says Angie to Steph.
Two minutes later: “Did you say right on Market?” Steph asks.
“Yep, right on Market.”
“We missed the turn.”
“They missed the turn.”
“Nothing we can do for you. You’ll have to find your way back to the hotel. Here’s the address.”

We found much-anticipated solace in the parking garage of the Pickwick Hotel, though we weren’t through with the shenanigans, yet. Steph, her children, and I lay low in the garage while the other three went upstairs to check in. The clerk said that the rooms we had just booked online weren’t available (while he was answering multiple phone calls, dealing with a waiting list of guests, and dealing with walk-ins that were hoping for rooms). “We only have five rooms left for tonight—no rooms with two beds, and no normal kings, either.” Because we had already booked online (10 minutes earlier), he hooked us up—upgraded us to the king business suite on the 8th floor and allowed us to book two rooms with a double in each for a great deal.

Few words were said when they returned to our cars in the parking lot. Our pulses were still racing, veins bulging in our necks, multiple curses still hovering in the air around us. We grabbed our bags and headed upstairs to call it a night. We ordered in sandwiches for dinner, which we enjoyed in bed after midnight. We also looked up some customer comments about the Motel 6, some of my favorite comment titles included:

"Even the Dogs Were Nervous"
"A Most Disgusting and Revolting Experience"
"Yuck, Yuck, Yuck!!!!!"

"On Welfare? Recently Paroled? They can House you Here!"

"What a Dump, Part Deux"

I suppose we should have looked these up before the room was booked...

Our loud neighbors returned from a night of partying after 1:30 am. Eventually, we heard the revelers leave. The elevator went down. The elevator then dinged when it returned to our floor. “That’s his booty call,” I said. I was unfortunately right. As we lay in bed around 2:30, we were lulled to sleep by the rhythmic beating of a headboard and female moaning in the room next to us—10 inches from our heads.(I really thought this only happened in movies, and was overplayed at that.) Likewise, we arose to a 9:00 am quickie—again with the headboard banging against our adjoining wall. My shower was then accompanied by noises from the couple’s morning shower.
So, the full day we were in San Fran was the 4th. We did a little shopping, a little walking, a little eating. We watched the fireworks perched in a silly cement “park” at the top of 40 or so mysterious stairs off the street. It was the perfect view—we could see four or five fireworks displays at once—the main ones were twinners shot off barges on either side of Alcatraz. By the time the fireworks began, I counted more than 30 people in the 12-by-12 foot lookout with us. One by one, the groups would arrive at the top of the stairs like they’d just found a little secret. They’d notice the great view and would squish into the lookout. There were some guys from Italy, a couple from the Bay, a couple from southern California (who kindly asked, “Do you guys mind if we smoke…you know, grass?”) No, we didn’t mind. It was all about camaraderie at that point. We shared the secret of this great 4th of July lookout. It was probably the most international 4th I’d ever celebrated. The steep hills surrounding us were filled with bumper to bumper cars attempting to make their way to the pier (which even us out-of-towners knew better than to attempt). Stranded on steep hillsides, they started honking with the fireworks, and continued throughout the display. So our entire firework show was serenaded with stranded honking.

The quickest way back to the hotel had to be on foot, we presumed, so we walked the 20+ blocks back to our hotel—through the middle of China Town. When we entered Union Square, we came across a group of street performers. A pre-teen boy was dancing for the crowd, and a man was playing the drums with drumsticks set on fire. As we walked past, a man approached the drums and lit his cigarette on the flaming drumsticks to the absolute elation of the surrounding crowd. Classic.