I have finally hit all but two spots in San Francisco that were in Hitchcock's "Vertigo" -- Ernie's and the Empire Hotel. I've seen Scottie's apartment, Madeline's apartment on Nob Hill, the cemetery at Mission Dolores, Fort Mason Point, and finally, today, the Palace of the Legion of Honor. The rest have either been torn down or never existed except in the movie. I don't know why I'm doing this (it's not my favorite Hitchcock film; "Notorious" is) but I started a couple years ago and every trip to San Francisco I go see another spot or two.
I also eat a dinner at Alioto's, on Fisherman's Wharf. That may change, though; their menu is different and the fish I ordered was just...weird. Extremely buttery and wrapped in an egg batter that I assume was pan fried. Not interesting, at all. But I eat here because it's where I ate the first time I came to San Francisco...34 years ago. Damn.
I needed to do this touristy crap, today, to clear my head of the chaos that was this book fair. Booths that had no names or numbers on them; they were written in chalk on the floor and vanished after about a hour of walking around on them. Porters who were illiterate to the point they could not even read the numbers on the big, bold mailing labels correctly (a shipment meant for 104 wound up in 401, and meant for 200 wound up in 208) or follow simple instructions. Display cases that hadn't been delivered to the booths they were supposed to be delivered to. Dealers having to become their own electricians by getting extension cords from the organizers...and having to pick up their own shelves and shelving units. Dealers shifted to other booths without notifying them. By the time I left, yesterday, my headache was back.
Didn't help I'd slammed a pallet-jack lip on my right foot. If I'd been wearing any other shoes than these Timberland leather ones, I'd have broken a bone instead of just get a nasty bruise. That's all I'm buying the way of shoes from now on.
I talked with a guy I know from the old days at Heritage. He still works for an auction house in San Francisco, and every time I see him he's better looking. Even after fifteen years. A bit shorter than me. Darker. Sloe eyes that seem perpetually amused. An almost wary smile. Rock star hair pulled back in a tight ponytail/bun. A little beefier than before (I almost asked him if he's been working out), but it looks right on him. Seeing him, at least, made my day.
Now I'm having hot tea and Oreos, dog tired. All I did on POS was some reading on the bus and trolley. 'Nuff said about that.
I also eat a dinner at Alioto's, on Fisherman's Wharf. That may change, though; their menu is different and the fish I ordered was just...weird. Extremely buttery and wrapped in an egg batter that I assume was pan fried. Not interesting, at all. But I eat here because it's where I ate the first time I came to San Francisco...34 years ago. Damn.
I needed to do this touristy crap, today, to clear my head of the chaos that was this book fair. Booths that had no names or numbers on them; they were written in chalk on the floor and vanished after about a hour of walking around on them. Porters who were illiterate to the point they could not even read the numbers on the big, bold mailing labels correctly (a shipment meant for 104 wound up in 401, and meant for 200 wound up in 208) or follow simple instructions. Display cases that hadn't been delivered to the booths they were supposed to be delivered to. Dealers having to become their own electricians by getting extension cords from the organizers...and having to pick up their own shelves and shelving units. Dealers shifted to other booths without notifying them. By the time I left, yesterday, my headache was back.
Didn't help I'd slammed a pallet-jack lip on my right foot. If I'd been wearing any other shoes than these Timberland leather ones, I'd have broken a bone instead of just get a nasty bruise. That's all I'm buying the way of shoes from now on.
I talked with a guy I know from the old days at Heritage. He still works for an auction house in San Francisco, and every time I see him he's better looking. Even after fifteen years. A bit shorter than me. Darker. Sloe eyes that seem perpetually amused. An almost wary smile. Rock star hair pulled back in a tight ponytail/bun. A little beefier than before (I almost asked him if he's been working out), but it looks right on him. Seeing him, at least, made my day.
Now I'm having hot tea and Oreos, dog tired. All I did on POS was some reading on the bus and trolley. 'Nuff said about that.
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