Happy (Belated) Fourth of July!

San Francisco is not a place to celebrate Independence Day. This, after all, is a city that prefers its American flags extra-crispy. But we had no choice. We were stuck in Moscow on the Bay for the Fourth, so we had to make the best of it. There were going to be fireworks over Fisherman’s Wharf; we figured we’d head on down to the docks, get ourselves a nice dinner, and enjoy the sight of thousands of pounds of weapons-grade explosives detonating over the water.

The wharf was a couple blocks away from our hotel, so we decided to take the bus. Count that as the most useless bus ride in the history of mankind. We went two blocks before the driver stopped the bus and waved us off. Apparently, the police had closed down all the streets close to the waterfront. We had paid $2.50 for a three block ride. I suppose it wasn’t all a waste. By riding a public transportation, we had helped save the environment. If we had walked those three blocks, we might have accidentally stepped on a snail or something.

Our plan involved dinner at Ghirardelli Square. What fools we were! The square was more crowded than a Boston hospital the day after St. Patrick’s. Both restaurants had lines that stretched through the lobby, out the door, up the stairs, across the square, and, as far as I knew, all the way back to Los Angeles. The chances of the ten of us getting a table anywhere were none to less than none. It didn’t bother me, though. I was already too upset too care. I had hoped that Ghirardelli Square would be a tacky chocolate paradise like the M&M store in Times Square. Instead, I found it to be tasteful and low-key. Shameful!

We ended up at a little Vietnamese place across the street. The server told us to expect a twenty minute wait. We agreed; after all, the fireworks wouldn’t start for another hour and a half. Flash forward forty-five minutes. We’re still standing outside the restaurant, slumped, spirits broken, getting in the way of passing cyclists. The restaurant had only one table big enough to seat all of us. That table was currently occupied by a group of older folk, still chatting, even though their check had arrived half an hour ago. I glared at them through the plate glass window. Never have I had such a desire to strangle a bunch of complete strangers.

Eventually the left. I’d like to think my angry glaring played a part. We were seated, with profuse apologies from management. We had to eat quickly; thirty minutes until the bombs started going off over the bay. This meal, by the way, marked my first encounter with sushi. I had never tried the stuff before. I worried I would eat some poorly prepared fugu and die a horrible death, kicking my life away on the floor of some cheap sushi joint. No…when I go I want to go with dignity. And explosions.

But I summoned by courage and ordered some shrimp tempura sushi. I even went for a double order; if I’m going to die, why not do it with gusto? Five minutes later, I faced down my fears: twelve squat bundles of rice, seaweed and shrimp. I grabbed my chopsticks and went to work. Five minutes later, I had yet to taste sushi. Using chopsticks is even harder than it looks. I nearly stabbed one of my tablemates through the throat. At long last, though, I got a grip one on of the sushi pieces. I squeezed it with the sticks; it promptly burst into a little confetti-like pile of rice and fried crustacean.

“Forget this,” I said to myself, and quite possibly out loud as well. I grabbed a piece and popped it my mouth. Not bad…a little sea-weedy, but the sticky, bland rice went well with the vinegarish taste. I tried another. Then a third, and a fourth, a fifth and sixth and seventh and so on and on. The sushi proved defenseless against my onslaught. I had conquered another culinary phobia. Next up: fried cow’s brains. That will have to wait until later, though, until I find a good brasserie. (No, not a brassiere, a brasserie)

Only five minutes to fireworks! We rushed out of the restaurant, stopping only to (grudgingly) pay our bill. Down to the docks, where a couple hundred other spectators stood. Before we reached the water we heard the unmistakable CRACK-KABOOM of pyrotechnic patriotism. You know how you can tell a good firework? If you can feel it in your sternum. If your ribs rattle in your chest, you’ve come to the right place.

The fireworks were shooting up from Alcatraz, the forlorn prison island in the middle of the bay. We could see another celebration from across the water. The fireworks in the distance echoed the ones exploding overhead. Each burst brought Oohs and aahs from the crowd and some intense flag-waving from the interns. We had brought along an American flag, and we put it to good use. I held it aloft for ten minutes before my joints started to scream. I handed it off to another intern who, being of hardier constitution, kept it up all night (no sexual pun intended). Apparently, he even held high the flag on the bus ride back to the hotel.

Another year gone by in the life of America, free of major earthquakes, terrorist attacks, and invasions from Canada. Not bad, all things considered. Next time, though, I’ll remember to pick up a gift in time. I’m thinking a nice Starbucks gift certificate ought to do the trick. Let’s see…300 million people…at maybe $4 a cup…$1.2 billion should just about cover it.