The Bear's Progress
SkeptoBear's trip to James Randi's Amazing Meeting 2004
Day Eleven
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.
The last time that SkeptoBear's male companion had been in San Francisco was the twentieth anniversary of the Summer of Love, and he accidentally found himself in a park with many other ageing hippies. His image from that time is stored in photo 
albums in Japan, because while he was reminiscing about stopping the war a busload of Japanese tourists appeared and took many happy snaps of the party in the park. One thing which had changed in San Francisco in the last mumblety years, though, was obviously the public attitude towards the consumption of chemicals. Alas, there would be no reminiscing on this trip, as, when asked, The Bear's youthful female companion scratched her head and guessed that Haight Ashbury might be a law firm. Sic gloria transit. And it was Monday, too.
Monday! San Francisco! Ba-da ba-da-da-da, Ba-da ba-da-da-da, Monday, Monday , So good to me ... He was showing his age again.
This day was going to be spent recovering from the intensity and long days of the conference in Las Vegas. There was washing to be done, shops to be investigated, and a small amount of relaxation to be had. There was going to be no rush. SkeptoBear checked the email in the Internet cafe in the hotel. (It was very convenient not having to go to Starbucks, but the chairs were the wrong height so he had to sit on the table.) While he was getting rid of the Nigerian letters and the offers of pharmaceuticals to increase the size of body parts and extend amorous endurance, his companions discovered a diner where the quality of the flapjacks and coffee lived up to the expectations raised by the stereotypical laminex table tops, neon lights and pictures of old Chevies on the wall.
When you've been away from home for a while it doesn't take much to make you homesick. Imagine the emotions felt by the team members 
when they walked into the Nodtsrum's building and saw that the expensive shopping centre's information desk bore the familiar sign "Westfield". It was like being in Parramatta again, and they just knew that somewhere nearby there was a car park with many abandoned cars, vehicles either left behind because their owners could not find them again after going up the wrong escalator or dumped when they had run out of fuel while driving around looking for an exit. The team were going to need a car the next day, and SkeptoBear jokingly suggested that as they were in a Westfield centre they might be able to save some money by using the familiar Blacktown Westfield Car Rental system, where filling out forms and producing a credit card are replaced by breaking the steering lock and hot-wiring the ignition. His companions were shocked at this (until they found out he was joking), and pointed out that while they might live in Sydney's western suburbs they were not stereotypical "Westies", both 
having their roots in the leafy and affluent North Shore region of the city. The Bear promptly started to run up and down the escalators yelling about where people had roots and only stopped when he realised that the locals had no idea what he was raving about.
What really calmed him down though was finding a palm reader. After his disappointment over not being able to have his fortune told in San Diego, The Bear was delighted to find that the facilities were right here in San Francisco. SkeptoBear is a strange mixture of a creature, railing at length about creationists or cancer quacks but a total pushover for anyone wearing a Gypsy head scarf and some gold hoop earrings. He claims that he is just researching cold reading for his book on skepticism, "The Bear Facts", but his friends know better. He never shows much interest in tarot or tauromancy, just palmistry. It must be a handicap for the readers that his palms are covered in hair, but he says that they were not always like that.
It was now time for lunch, and what better place to eat in a city by the water than in a restaurant by the water. But first there was the obligatory cable car trip, and what better way could there be to get to the eating places at Fisherman's Wharf? SkeptoBear was determined to do the full tourist thing, and so he had to travel on the outside of the car. Unfortunately the hair on his palms which so inconvenienced the palm readers also made it slippery and dangerous to hold on to the hand rails, so his 
companions had to take it in turns to stand outside with him. This was no real hardship, because both of them were secretly looking for an excuse to hang off the side of the car themselves. Everyone thought that it was strange that all the passengers were told to get off the conveyance before it actually arrived at its destination, but as this experience was repeated on every occasion when the group caught a cable car over the next few days it could possibly be some local custom introduced to make sure that people get enough exercise.
Fisherman's Wharf might be the archetype of a sleazy tourist trap, but nobody can deny that there are some fine restaurants there. One was chosen at random, and there were no complaints about the quality of the prawns (or even the shrimps), the fish and the California chardonnay. After lunch, the group thought that they would have to do at least one more touristy thing, and they found themselves in a museum containing old arcade games and machines. The Bear's male companion found a machine which did personality readings for a small amount of money. SkeptoBear snorted that anyone who disparaged palm readers was dancing on thin ice by being enthusiastic about a fortune-telling machine, but when he read the following evaluation of the character of his companion he had to admit that it was extremely accurate.
As the team all came from a city with a harbour, they knew that the real attractions of the city would not be found in the tourist traps but might very well be close by where the real people work and play. 
San Francisco is no exception, and behind the fake Fisherman's Wharf there is a real fisherman's wharf with real fishermen, real fish packers and real fish. And giant seagulls. SkeptoBear asked what the big brown birds were and he was told that they were seagulls. When he said that they were larger and browner than the ones at home, he was told that they were brown because they were baby seagulls. From then onwards, everyone kept a tight hold onto something in case an adult seagull came by and wanted a snack.
Suddenly, there was a disturbance in the water. First thoughts were that it was just a seagull swooping down and carrying off a dolphin, but no, it was something much more exotic. A camera was swung into position and the button pressed, but, alas, there was no time to frame the shot and focus before the creature had submerged again. Luckily these are the days of digital cameras, so there was no need to wait until the prints came back from the chemist. A glance at the little window on the back of the camera showed that, yes, there was a photograph of the elusive and almost mythical Loch Van Ness Monster.
After all this excitement the tired team managed to get onto a cable car. The trip was terminated about four blocks before it was supposed to be, leaving some of its passengers wondering where the vehicle would be going to spend the night. Opinion was unanimous that an early night was called for, so after dinner at a small Chinese restaurant the group returned to the hotel and their rooms and reading material. About three doors away from the hotel was a tattoo parlour, but it was closed and everyone was sober. Some things would have to be put off until later.
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Next: Give me a museum among the gum trees
