Previously, on Degree 32...
"the first person I met was Stan"
"furnished with free Bombay Sapphire"
"you're all questioning my good fortune"
"I was mightily impressed"
PART TWO
"So, my first night in San Francisco was a total surprise, a spectacular whirlwind with Stan. Totally innocent, totally harmless..."
I mean, in this day and age it's fine to help cut the hair of a stranger, isn't it? It doesn't mean anything untoward is happening. I was the groomer, not the groomee, right!
More on Stanley to come...
[this whole palava brought to mind a kindred spirit, as featured here from about 9m45s in]
Out of character with the rest of my time to date within the States, San Francisco has been punctuated with episodes of crime and punishment. It's not all hopeless though. One night, an armed road junction bust resulted in two guys being led away in handcuffs, post Miranda, having been removed from their car at gunpoint by the officers in attendance. Just hours earlier, the daylight bag-snatch I witnessed (3 youthful males on a lone twenty-something woman) prompted a reaction from every San Franciscan within 100 yards. Many went to the aid of the victim whilst at least three cyclists altered their intended courses in pursuit of the felons. My final experience of lawfullness over that weekend was wholly my own doing. I visited Alcatraz on an amazingly sunny day, saw inside the infamous cellhouse and, along with hundreds of others, took the audio tour - walking in the very footsteps of some chillingly cold-blooded individuals.
Another excursion I took myself on while in San Francisco was over the Golden Gate bridge to Muir Woods, a State Park and home to the biggest trees I've ever seen. The website was accurate in its' assertions that it would be busy, the crowds swollen by the hot and sunny weekend weather. I took myself off the beaten track in favour of some solitary commune with the stately beings, making for a trail which promised views of the Pacific above the canopy. The pathways up the side of the valley were a massed lattice-work of woven roots and jutting nubs, holding the epic Ents in their vertical formations. From the top, I and the gathered redwoods cast our gaze along the valley, between the hills and out to sea.
San Francisco, of course, is fairly well known for its' streets. Bullitt is perhaps the best-known of films to utilise the hills of Russian and Nob for its' chase sequences. Charles, if you are reading the blog, you will be pleased to hear I took the opportunity to experience driving these hills myself while I was in the city. The hostel was just south of Nob Hill, as it goes, so it was an easy job to get there, although the Purple Nimbus did struggle a little with the 45 degree uphill incline at one point. Now, my vehicle is clearly not a Mustang, but certain custom features I think made anyone who witnessed its' descent rather jealous. Steve McQueen certainly didn't have a Queen-sized bed in his motor, did he.
Before I draw a line under San Francisco, I must finish telling you about Stan.
As I mentioned, he was born in California, and raised under the false pretence that he was brain-damaged at birth. In 1979 he moved to New Orleans and fell in love with the city, the people, the music, only to be made homeless by Hurricane Katrina. He moved back to California and now resides just a few blocks from where I stayed in Santa Monica.
Upon first meeting him, you may think he's not quite all there (the impression he left on some other hostellers who only met him briefly suggests as much), yet he trumped me at every turn with his knowledge and reading during the evening we spent together. On top of his talent with art - he creates collages in homage to the people of New Orleans - he is an art therapist. You draw a picture featuring a number of specific things - a tree, a house, a sun, a body of water and a snake - and he will tell you about your spirituality, your philosophy of life, ego, sexuality and creativity. He did it for me and, I have to say, I could relate to everything he told me.
Despite the great upheavals he has faced in life, his own philosophy is wonderfully positive: if you can make someone smile, or laugh, it brightens their day. So he says 'hello' to anyone he passes in the street, and carries around blowing bubbles, asking people he meets if they fancy a blow.
Someone once said laughter is the best medicine. And I reckon they might be right.
(Unless you've got broken ribs.)
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