The Market and the Mission

The second day in San Francisco began with a bang. No, actually it was more like a buzz. A loud, obnoxious buzz ringing right in my ear like a demented cicada. Over the past couple years, I have grown to know and loath the sound of my cell phone’s alarm clock. I would know it blindfolded and without ears. But it never fails to wake me up, so I can’t live without it. We had to get up early today. We had a city to explore, and damn it, we were going to explore the holy hell out of San Francisco!

The fun started with a walk down Market Street, San Francisco’s attempt to rip off either Broadway or Fifth Avenue. I couldn’t tell which. A number of large, shiny buildings lined the street, a testament to the ubiquity of ugly glass skyscrapers. A fifteen minute walk brought us to the Ferry Building. The Ferry Building is, true to its name, the dropping-off point for the ferry that tools back and forth between San Francisco and Oakland. I’m pretty sure most of the traffic goes one way. As far as I know, there are no huddled masses of San Franciscans waiting to escape across the bay to the paradise that some call Oakland. I’m fairly sure the reverse is true, though.

Outside the Ferry Building is the S.F. farmer’s market. Everywhere I looked, I saw those two magic words: “Free samples.” In my Schultzian interpretation of history, there are only three really great men: Martin Luther, Winston Churchill, and the man who invented free samples. Who was the genius who realized that, if you offered small portions of your food free of charge, you might induce tasters to purchase the full version? Whoever he was, he had the wisdom of Socrates and the generosity of a saint. I am deeply in his debt.

I love apples more than any other fruit—or any other food in general, or any thing at all—so I was a little disappointed to find that apples were not in season. There were plenty of peaches, though. OK, I have to ask: can anyone really spot the differences between varieties of peaches? I contend that no one can. What separates a “Flavorcrest” from an “Autumn Red”? They’re both soft, fuzzy, and sweet. They even have the same coloration, for the love of God! They’re the same thing! The peach farmers have conned us for years. I’m wise to their tricks.

That didn’t stop me from plowing through a dozen peaches’ worth of free samples. I also tried some strawberries, a handful of blueberries, and a cracker loaded down with sweet, sticky red jam. One stall didn’t have any free samples; what they did have was a big box full of dried beans, with the label, “Go ahead and feel it. You know you want to.” I couldn’t resist an invitation like that. I found my favorite sample at a booth advertising “Nuts,” which I confess made me giggle. There were two people working the crowd, each holding a little plastic baggie filled with something small and dark. I approached—and promptly got a chunk of almond brittle shoved into my hand. I tried it and was changed forever. I went back at least four times for more.

We made a quick dash through the Ferry Building itself. Behind the building, you’ll find a big statue of Gandhi—and for the curious, no, Gandhi never came within a thousand miles of East Bay. The stores inside all offered their own free samples. In one five minute walk I tried some tangy lemon olive oil, a spoonful of creamy melted caramel, and a crisp chunk of bread (not all at the same time, though I was tempted to do a little mixing and matching). I drew the line at raw oysters. When it comes to raw food, I follow Woody Allen’s dictum: I never eat anything that’s only unconscious. We regrouped outside the Ferry Building right near a shaggy street musician. He was a drummer, and a sign sitting next to him said that he “played for peace.” At first I scoffed, but then I though: hey, if it doesn’t work it doesn’t work, but if it does...well, then we all owe that guy a good deal of gratitude.

There, we convened a plenipotentiary session of the intern crew to decide on our next stop. Much debate ensued. I kid you not when I say we spent ten minutes going back and forth. At last we hammered out a schedule: stop by the Mission District, San Fran’s hipster kingdom, before going on to the most fabulous place on earth—the legendary Castro District. From there we would go to Twin Peaks. I admit, as soon as I heard Twin Peaks I thought of Laura Palmer. And I’ve never even seen the show! Wikipedia, what have you done to me? My life is nothing but a series of disjointed pop culture references! Having resolved on a course of action, we headed underground to the nearest BART station, BART standing for Bay Area Rapid Transit.

BART is like the New York subway system, only it doesn’t ooze hostility and hatred. There is also less of a urine-y smell. A five-minute trip brought us right up to the Mission. We had visited the very same station the night before; what a difference the sunlight makes. Perhaps all the creepy, shady figures we had seen loitering outside were vampires. That explains why they vanished in the daylight. Under the San Fran sun, the Mission District loses its seedy feel and takes on a kind of bourgeois-hipster atmosphere. It’s where broke college students go to feel cool.

The first order of business was to visit a vintage clothing shop that sells its goods by the pound. For a low, low price, you can buy ten pounds of funky purple button-down shirts and sweaters that look like they were cut from a shag carpet. A couple peculiar things caught my eye: a hat rack full of berets, a fragment of lederhosen, and a purple-and-gold silk robe that looked as if it belonged in Harry Potter. I was especially tempted by a security guard’s jacket, complete with a badge on the shoulder. Putting it on made me feel like a total badass. I was ready to go out and crack some hippie skulls. I also spent a few minutes admiring a rack filled with colorful parachute pants; after a few minutes, I realized I was looking at a bunch of curtains.

Then came a brief stop in a vintage book store. One of the other interns stumbled across a book titled “A Piece of Tape,” written by Watergate burglar James McCord. But wait, there’s more—McCord had autographed the book! We all oohed and aahed over that. To us, that was like finding a copy of the Bible autographed by God. Perhaps I exaggerate a little. I picked up a book on the French Revolution, because I enjoy nothing more than French people killing one another. It’s my ideal; the world loses some French people, while no real human beings get harmed in the process. Because it was July 4, the clerk engaged me in a brief discussion about the differences between French and American revolutions. I nodded a bit, furrowed my brow, and escaped without him realizing that I was a total idiot.

OK, time to take a break. Next—the Castro District, and Twin Peaks!