The Bear's Progress

SkeptoBear's trip to James Randi's Amazing Meeting 2004

Day Fourteen
We could be tourists, just for one day.

It was a bleary-eyed group that assembled for breakfast. Eggs, bacon and other fried foods were eschewed in favour of toast, marmalade and lots of coffee. While checking the email to see if the Nigerians had upped the offer from $32 million some web sites were investigated to see if the musical discovery from the night before, the Holmes Brothers, were performing anywhere convenient that night. They were appearing in Los Angeles with Bo Diddley and some thought was applied to the possibility of getting standby air tickets until it was calculated that the time spent in airport security procedures would swamp any pleasure derived from the much shorter time spent listening to the music. Maybe they will appear at The Basement in Sydney one day.

It was finally decided that enough skeptical work had been done on this trip and that this day would be devoted to being conventional tourists. This was San Francisco, after all, and the city contained what has been described by Kodak as the most-photographed man-made object in the world. Who were this group to resist the attractions of the Golden Gate Bridge? Well, they were people from Sydney which has a rather good bridge of its own, but when you are a guest in someone else's place it is polite to look at the local scenery. A walk across the bridge was ruled out by the sore foot problem. Plantar fasciitis is not made any better by more walking and can be made very much worse by too much activity, so in the absence of any knowledge about means of public transport to get near enough to the bridge to start walking or to get back from the other end it was resolved that going under it on a boat would be the most satisfactory option. As walking across the bridge was the only activity which the sore foot prevented in the entire trip, disappointment was minimal.

The tourist trap area around Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco is clearly divided into two parts. On one side, focussed on the wharf itself, is the normal collection of ghastly souvenir shops selling tack (made in China) of a kind which can be found anywhere in the world. On the other side, surrounding Ghirardelli Square, life is much nicer. The first point of call that morning was a coffee shop in the old chocolate factory where you can get just about the best hot chocolate in the world. SkeptoBear was more interested in the nearby Sharper Image shop, where he was able to get a highly sophisticated and scientific magnetic mask (complete with magnets with only one pole) which he claimed helped him greatly in getting over the remaining effects of the night before. Everyone else went to a wonderful shop containing musical instruments made by small craft works and artisans. Hands were kept firmly in pockets to avoid any temptation to pick up and play any instrument which would have caused love at first hear, large expense, and baggage problems on the plane home. But those guitars were really nice ...

The group got talking to some street vendors who were selling original things that they had made themselves. The vendors admitted that they set up their stalls well away from the main tourist strip just so that they would not be tainted by the tawdriness of it all. One stand-out was a man selling small, exquisite, impressionist images of San Francisco painted onto glass. Next to him was a fifty-something baby boomer selling tied-died t-shirts. Did the aging hippie member of SkeptoBear's party buy one of these shirts? Of course he did! If you are visiting San Francisco and end up at Fisherman's Wharf (and who doesn't?), make sure that you go two blocks south and four west to where you can buy real quality and get real value. And real hot chocolate.

After lunch it was time for the inevitable boat cruise. The Bear could not help himself and immediately became Leonardo D'Ursino as soon as he saw the front of the boat. The rest of the party pretended not to know him, something which they had become quite good at over the past week or two. Of course, once the boat got out into the bay they both started acting like real tourists who had never seen water from a boat before and photographed anything that moved and many things that did not. Remember that these people came from Sydney, the place with the best harbour in the world. They had obviously been away from home for too long.

After the boat cruise everyone was feeling a bit hungry again (it must be true what they say about salt air) so a convenient restaurant was sought out for a snack and the lady of the group was introduced to crab chowder served in a hollowed-out loaf of bread. The restaurant was picked at random, but in one of those coincidences that underpin the idea of psychic powers it was only noticed after the soup had been served that the male member of the party had been there before. He had only ever had crab chowder in San Francisco twice in his life, with a period of over twenty years in between, but on both occasions he had been seated at the same table. Spooky!

After one last look at the bridge lit by the setting sun, the group went to catch a cable car back to their hotel. There were two buskers entertaining the crowd waiting to board the cars. One busker was playing songs on a banjo which were almost recognisable as works by the Beatles, the Eagles and Bob Dylan. (You do not want to hear Hotel California performed on a banjo!) It has been truly said that when comparing the relative utility of the viola to the banjo you can at least burn a viola to keep yourself warm. The banjo has no such redeeming feature (unless played by Pete Seeger of course, an observation offered by the aging hippie and peace activist in the group). The other busker did an escape from a straight jacket. You may remember that the group had seen Lance Burton perform such a trick in Las Vegas. Lance is reputed to be the highest paid performer in Las Vegas but this busker did a better escape act and was literally working for small change. Life isn't fair, is it?

Naturally, the cable car trip was terminated several blocks before its advertised destination and everyone had to get out and walk. The jazz bar which had been so successfully found late last night was this night featuring a band which seemed to be playing a combination of hip-hop, Sri Lankan drumming and Seattle thrash metal so it did not look (or sound) like anywhere where people with sensitive ears needed to go. As an alternative the group voted to eat some ethnic food, and what could be more suitably ethnic for a party containing a majority of people from Irish stock than the fare at an Irish pub? Mashed potatoes and pork chops! Sausages! Bliss! SkeptoBear made a new friend in Paddy O'Bear who worked in the pub, and everyone agreed that it was a great shame that they had only found this place on the last night in the city. As the party had to travel a very long way the next day the traditional bar fight was not held. It was probably just as well, because The Bear's lady companion is an expert in various Oriental martial arts and when she starts doing the high kicks and backflips and shouting "Ha! Huh!" it can become quite confusing for your average Irish pub brawler.

As the group made its way back to the hotel for the last sleep before going home it became obvious that everyone contained enough Harp, Guinness and Tullamore Dew to want, no, need, no, demand a tattoo. But was the tattoo place open for business? What a silly question.

The untattooed, weary, chemically affected travellers went to their rooms for a night of fitful sleep. Tomorrow would not just be another day, it would be an extremely long day and the last day of the great adventure. It was going to be all downhill from here.

Index page

Previous: Science museum, swinging music. Perfect!
Next: Going home!