Digital Headhouse

My credit-card bill arrived with charges from the West. VISA has its side of the story. This is mine. BTW Melinda June, are we square?

Day One

After a day-long conference, I headed to the airport hoping to catch the last few innings of the Twins home opener. I missed it and had plenty of time to walk the concourse, surf my iPod and size up the gathering crowd; hoping not to sit next to her or him. This being a flight to San Francisco, there was a third category, a shim, with breasts and a beard, whom I did sit next to, and who was delightful.

A plane ride, a taxi ride and I was enjoying a cocktail in the hotel bar of Hyatt Fishermans Wharf with Melinda June, Ben-Bob, and a new acquaintance from London, YB.

Day Two

Up at my usual Central Daylight Time and well before the others, I tip-toed down to Starbucks where I sipped and read my book, The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath. Back at the hotel, unrushed, we plan our day, shower, dress and head out. MJ and I walked the wharf, stopping at Boudin for delicious sour-dough bread shaped like turtles. Then on to the Ferry Building and it’s foodie marketplace where we reunited with YB for lunch overlooking San Francisco Bay. Our ambitious plans for the afternoon waned as we failed to spot any double-decker tour buses which had been ubiquitous all morning. Now chilled and underdressed, we went back to the hotel to regroup.

A short nap and warmer clothes prepared me for the evening which started with a Cable Car ride to the shopping district. We split up among DSW, H&M and the Apple Store, then reunited over cocktails at The St. Francis Hotel on Union Square. The monument in the square commemorated Admiral Dewey’s victory at Manila Bay the very same day 112 years ago.

Now dinner, and for that we taxied to Sordini’s in North Beach to meet up with YB’s friend Dylan. It was fun to hear two Brits talk about the States. I go to bed stuffed and hiccupping Chianti.

Day Three

Again I’m awake before I should be, killing time at Starbucks before meeting Ben and Neda for breakfast. After which MJ and I walk to the pier and board a ferry to Alcatraz. It’s fascinating and satisfying. Here it is looking just like in the movies and on the History Channel. Back on land we head to City Lights Bookstore. I recently read The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and On the Road. In fact, I characterized this trip as MJ playing Dean Moriarty and me just “shambling after.” I had to see this landmark of the Beat generation. I marveled over the new print of Animal Farm illustrated by Ralph Steadman but left with a simple copy of Howl.

We’re hungry so we walk the streets of Chinatown and select a place that looks the most authentic — which is to say there was nothing Chinesey about it — just formica tables and fluorescent lights. Inside, a table of men chat and nibble. Not only were they straight out of central casting for chinamen in a 50′s western but thanks to one of them, I now understand the expression, “long in the tooth.”

Time to leave our heart in San Francisco but not without visiting its greatest landmark, the Golden Gate Bridge. Our stop was brief but long enough to take in its awesomeness.

I’m a lousy navigator so we’re grateful for GPS which guides us to Oakland. Crossing the Bay Bridge, we can’t help think of the 1989 earthquake that flattened these double decks. Our destination is the home of MJ’s friend Heidi, a woman she knows only through blogging, has never met in person. Heidi’s a great cook who fills us with pasta and warm cookies. We supplied the cannoli from a bakery in North Beach. Many Godfather references were made.

Day Four

Our pledge to make Reno that night failed. We ran out of steam in Auburn and good thing too, we would have missed gorgeous scenery to darkness and risked driving off the road to tiredness. We reached Reno and it’s Whole Foods the following afternoon. We ate lunch, caught up on social sites and gathered grubstake for the empty miles ahead. Empty indeed. Nothing here but supermax prisons which you can’t see but know you’re near by the signs warning not to pick up hitchhikers. I took the control of the wheel while MJ took control of the iPod. Jonathan Richman and a 75 mile per hour speed limit (we did 80+), shot us across the state and into the arms of West Wendover, NV. Our hotel/casino was a lonely, inexpensive place that straddled the state line and time zone. We picked at the buffet, joined a sorry collection of guests at the slots, then shuffled off to our room for a road-weary sleep.

Day Five

Daylight revealed the valley we descended into the night before — unbelievably broad, flat and salty-white. East of town are the Bonneville Salt Flats. I expected an interpretive center with interactive displays and uniformed staff. Instead, at the end of a very long road stood a solitary sign: weathered, pock-marked and full of bullet holes. This was better; austerity fit the place, so simple and elemental. I scooped salt into a left-over TSA baggie.

Further down I-80 was Salt Lake City. I’ve read Under the Banner of Heaven and I’ve seen the send-up of Mormons on South Park but neither prepared me for Temple Square. We were approached by no fewer than a dozen young women, working in pairs, clutching the Book of Mormon to their breast and beseeching us (I never use that word but it’s called for here) to explore the grounds, linger in the Visitor Centers both North and South, and hear the story of Joseph Smith. What creeped me out has less to do with Mormonism than my unease among shiny, happy people. And they were happy, and polite and earnest. My dark side supposes they go home to a father who beats them but I don’t think so.

We smiled and backed away from Utah and into Wyoming. MJ drove while I picked M&Ms out of the trail mix. The Cowboy State has few people, fewer towns but amazing views. There was snow in the higher elevations and these curious buildings – square, brick, a single smoke stack and door but no windows and no tire tracks near. We’re still puzzling over them.

The most beautiful stretch was between Laramie and Cheyenne. It was dusk and felt like a late winter storm was organizing. Curt Gowdy’s from these parts. It was a long day and we were happy to check in at the Holiday Inn Express. I dragged MJ to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. Cheyenne has an abundance of drive-in motels. In other towns they collect weeds, adulterers and riffraff on the lam. In Cheyenne they’re as tidy and inviting as their 50s-era postcard, including elaborate neon sign and western theme — The Lariat, The Hitching Post. Why do these motor inns thrive while others slip into disrepair and ill repute?

Day Six

Weeks before our trip MJ picked two things to do in Cheyenne: visit the Cow Girl Museum and buy boots. The museum was closed for renovations and we nearly talked ourselves out of spending money on boots. But how could we skip The Wrangler? They had walls and walls of boots and that was just for cowgirls! We each bought a pair (or two) before hitting the trail.

Welcome to Nebraska but don’t get too comfy because, “THE END OF TIMES ARE UPON US!” An enormous Jesus menaces us at the border. Nebraska is there so cross-country travelers can make up time, like lag in a project timeline. We left the interstate just once for a yummy lunch at a diner shaped like an igloo. We had pie.

Omaha is cool, which was news to me. We had a fine Indian meal in the warehouse district near the river. The streets and outdoor cafes were packed with college kids, middle-aged conventioneers and high school prom couples. There was a great energy in the 70 degree air. Also, many mixed race couples.

Day Seven

The point of today is to get home. After our routine visit to Starbuck’s, we head out of town. For the first time in five days, the compass registers North. We ascend 29 then cut over to 169 which takes us to the Twin Cities and my home in north Minneapolis. MJ deposits me on my lawn and heads to a friends house where she can be alone til they come home from work. She’s got a full day tomorrow followed by final drive to Chicago. God bless her.