Bummer of Love
We were just outside of San Francisco when I decided to get into the spirit of the city and throw on a Summer of Love playlist on Spotify. The very first song that came on was “San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair)” by Scott McKenzie. Then it was “Somebody to Love” by Jefferson Airplane and “You’re Gonna Miss Me” by The 13th Floor Elevators and then Big Brother & the Holding Company with “Take Another Piece of My Heart.” Looking at San Francisco on the horizon with these tunes in my ears was a powerful experience, like wearing museum headphones that tell you secret histories of the art. I was immediately sent hurtling back to my formative years when my hair was long and the closet in my bedroom always had a funny smell and the only music I ever listened to was created in the 1960s.
The posters on my wall were Yellow Submarine and Jim Morrison “An American Poet” and the inner sleeve of Jimi Hendrix’s Smash Hits.
There was a stack of old worn vinyls in the closet that once belonged to my parents. I would listen to them on a record player I found in my grandfather’s basement, and on my bookshelf was an early copy of John Lennon’s In His Own Write and a book called According to the Rolling Stones.
I can’t put my finger on what it was, but the music of that era and all of the names and faces and the mythology that went along with them just completely enraptured me. I still do believe it to be the finest era in the history of music and one of the finest eras in the history of America: an explosion of art and ideas and love and of great change. San Francisco, the bayside city on our horizon, was the place where much of it was born.
If you’ve ever read Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas or seen the Terry Gilliam film, then you’ve already heard it summed it far more succinctly than I’ll ever be able to do it.
Cruising along toward this hallowed ground, listening to these fine, fine tunes on a beautiful sunny day was one of the high points of this trip for me so far. It reminded me how much inspiration I’ve drawn from that mystical point in American history. I’ve always had this profound desire to go back and experience it firsthand. As of today, that’s impossible, but the next best thing is to see it as it currently stands. To stand out there in Haight-Ashbury where the magic happened all those years ago, listen for the echoes, search the ground for wilted flowers, squint my eyes for lingering shadows.
Well, just like the Summer of Love, it didn’t remain all sunshine and liquid light shows.
It was early in the morning on the road after a nice night in the Mission. We were headed back out into the city to rent bikes and ride them across the Golden Gate bridge. I was having a strenuous time navigating Fishtank through the many hills of its strange streets. Driving in a new city can be a harrowing experience, even more so in an 18-foot van that doesn’t belong to you. I started getting desperate to find parking. We entered a garage. A really tight city garage. I mean, really tight. We’re creeping through its murky confines looking for not just an empty space but an empty space with at least enough room for us to exit the vehicle after we’d parked. There were none. Rolling through with claustrophobia and utter panic setting in, I cut a turn too close and we heard a strange sound. I exited the vehicle with my heart sinking to find that I’d scratched the van considerably across a cement beam.
Well, that’s what you have insurance for right? At least that’s what my dad told me when I called him in a panic. I don’t know, I needed to hear the thoughts of an actual adult. It took me a damn long time to calm myself, and I still seize up every time the memory returns, but what exactly can I do at this point? There’s certainly a lesson here, but I think I’ll trade that wisdom for a pristine rental van this time around.
This predictably put a damper on our journey through San Fran. We found easy parking in a lot down the road, because the Universe has a twisted and vile sense of humor, and we set out toward the bike rental spot on foot. Gabby and I were mostly silent on our walk, me thinking about the 5,000 dentless, dingless miles I’d traversed before meeting that cursed concrete pole and Gabby likely thinking about long and hard the unhinged, hysterical lunatic she’d just met in that parking garage.
Once we’d grabbed the bikes and began traversing the streets, I could feel the misery subsiding a bit. Until we hit Fisherman’s Wharf that is. It just so happened to be Fleet Week so there were thousands upon thousands of human obstacles for us to avoid as we battled our way toward the bridge in the distance. I’m sure it would have been a joy on some other day.
We found our way through the mess eventually and began moving along at a steady pace. That’s when I noticed the city. What a glorious place. The houses, the faces, the water, the bridge. It began stripping away the layers of despair one by one until I was strictly in the moment. Gabby’s mood began to turn too, she began sticking her legs out in a split as the bike wobbled along the pathway then looking back to see if I was watching. There wasn’t a mangled van or an insurance policy in sight.
After we’d returned from our trek across the fabled Golden Gate we went to meet Gabby’s cousin, Lisa, at the bike return spot. Lisa is from Long Island like us, but she just so happened to be coming through San Francisco on that very day. Amazing, really. We went to grab some food in the Marina District and then went wandering around thinking about Full House and Homeward Bound II. At least I was.
I know we had an awful scene in the parking garage, and we never got to go to Haight-Ashbury and look for flower-haired phantoms, and we hardly even saw the place, but I fell in love with San Francisco. It was a short and volatile but passionate affair. Someday I shall return.
That night we hit the road once more toward a little place called Mountain View. The following morning it was out onto the PCH towards our last West Coast destination: Los Angeles.
