Sight-seeing in S.F. with Friends

Last week I spent two days in Yosemite National Park, which is twice the time most people allot to that remarkable destination. This week, I spent three days showing San Francisco to friends, and the itinerary we planned together provided maximum exposure to my new home.

Susan and Denny and Deb and Bill had all been here before and had no interest in making the stops that many first-time visitors insist on, so we divided up the three days we had together this way: Day One was My San Francisco, Day Two was West Marin and Day Three was High Culture, offset a bit by riding buses everywhere we went.

Here is a report on the highlights.

MONDAY: We held our Welcome Dinner at Ragazza, a terrific pizza place where it is difficult to get in after 7 p.m. Fortunately, my visitors’ bodies were still operating on Central Daylight Time, so eating early was an excellent idea. I can vouch for the pie topped with thin-sliced potato, smoked bacon, red onion, rosemary and goat cheese.

TUESDAY: We started at the top of Twin Peaks to take in the near-panoramic view of San Francisco. Next we enjoyed a drive-by of lovely Crissy Field and stopped for beverages and cookies at the Warming Hut, which is thisclose to the Golden Gate Bridge. At Land’s End, we sat in the sun and contemplated life on the edge of the continent, which is also the entrance to San Francisco Bay. The water is at least three colors -- and maybe five. After a short drive to Fort Funston, we sat in the sun some more, watching waves wash ashore and pelicans fly in formation.

After lunch at the Beach Chalet, we waved at the bison housed in Golden Gate Park. In the Botanical Garden, we sat in the shade of coastal redwood trees and later spied turtles sunning themselves in a pond. At cocktail hour, we ambled into Finnegan’s Wake in Cole Valley, a bar once frequented by Janis Joplin. Then we walked to Haight-Ashbury, where we popped in at The Sock Shop, perused the merchandise at Pipe Dreams (the oldest head shop in the neighborhood) and sampled chocolates at Coco Luxe. After dinner at Bambino’s, we headed back to Twin Peaks to watch the sky make art at sunset. Bonus: A 99-percent full moon was on the rise.

WEDNESDAY: First thing, we headed north across the Golden Gate Bridge. We stopped to breathe in the fresh sea air at the Muir Beach Overlook, cruised through Stinson Beach, drove around Bolinas Lagoon (Sea lions! Egrets! Herons!) and then stopped to visit the studio of a friend – Emmeline Craig, a watercolorist who lives and works in Bolinas. After driving through the cow-filled Olema Valley, we stopped in Point Reyes Station for lunch.

After a stop at the Bear Valley Visitors Center, we headed for Limantour Beach, said to be the prettiest of the beaches at Point Reyes National Seashore. On the beach, we sat and soaked up the scenery, the sounds, the salt-sea air. On the drive home, we enjoyed the serenity of the towering redwoods in Samuel P. Taylor State Park. I dropped off my friends, who had dinner at Ziryab -- a great Mediterranean restaurant – and I headed home to relax and once again bind up wounds suffered in a fall at Twin Peaks the day before. (No point in going into details and spoiling this travelogue!)

THURSDAY: We met at the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park. First we rode to the top of the glassed-in tower so I could say, “I should be able to see my house from here.” Then we visited “Picasso: Masterpieces from the Musée National Picasso, Paris,” an exciting exhibition of more than 100 works of art. Yes, Picasso was a pig – we spent part of lunch trying to sort out how many wives and how many mistresses he admitted to – but he was clearly a genius. We split up briefly to see other works of art. (I opted to walk through “Balenciaga and Spain,” where I learned that Balenciaga was apprenticed to a tailor at the age of 13.)

After lunch in the museum’s café, we all boarded a bus to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, where we were eager to see “The Steins Collect,” an exhibition of works by Matisse, Picasso, Cézanne, Renoir, Toulouse-Lautrec and others – all collected by Gertrude Stein and her family members back when you could pick up a Picasso for $25. The art was astonishing, as were the family photos, including one taken one evening when Matisse came to dinner. What a thrill to see these two exhibitions on the same day! (I still must get to the Contemporary Jewish Museum to see “Seeing Gertrude Stein: Five Stories.”)

After a rest in the shade and then a rest in the sun at MOMA’s Rooftop Sculpture Garden and coffee bar, we stopped for pre-dinner drinks at a different sort of bar and then we boarded the F Streetcar for Teatro Zinzanni, where nothing is ever as it seems – but it’s always entertaining, an evening filled with feather boas for sale, good food and polished performances!

All this, punctuated with much laughter and good conversation – and yet when my friends return, they will find that San Francisco has even more to offer.

A Quick Trip to Yosemite

Trees have much to teach us, and Friday I spent some time with some of the oldest, biggest trees on the planet. Meandering through the Mariposa Grove (on foot and later on the tram) in Yosemite National Park, I was in the company of Sequoiadendron giganteum – giant sequoia trees.

These trees are the biggest in volume – just one branch on the largest tree in Mariposa Grove measures seven feet in diameter -- though not height or longevity. Giant sequoias grow to an average height of 160–280 feet and measure an average of 20 to 26 feet in diameter. The oldest known giant sequoia was said to be 3,500 years old.

We looked at intact trees, fallen trees, trees with split trunks, trees with hollow trunks (you can step inside and see blue sky above) and two trees that are conjoined, covered in a singular bark. We looked at tall trees with names (Grizzly Giant, Clothespin Tree, Galen Clark Tree) and we looked at nameless sprouts, just getting started.

We also looked at trees marked forever with what the guide called “fire scars,” blackened areas left behind after the trees withstood the heat of raging fires. Lightning caused some of those fires, some took place as part of forest management and careless humans started some of the fires. The fire scars are testament to the strength -- and the good fortune -- of the surviving trees, which are still standing, still rustling in the wind, still warming themselves in the sun.

After learning about these majestic trees, I feel a lot better about my scars, external and internal. How about you?

Actually, enlightenment was not on my list of things to experience on my quick trip to Yosemite National Park on Thursday and Friday. I went to see the waterfalls, gushing full and furiously with snowmelt. I went to commune with Yosemite Valley, which John Muir said looks like “some immense hall or temple lighted from above.” (He added, “But no temple made with hands can compare with Yosemite.”) And I went to get away (oh the irony) from one of the top tourist destinations in the United States and my home for almost a year now – San Francisco.

From my door to the Yosemite Valley floor took five hours, and that included one highway backup and two stops. The next day, I came home. In all, I drove 501 miles. I spent the night at the Yosemite Bed and Breakfast outside Mariposa. The B&B is lovely, especially quiet and restful after the crowds and traffic in Yosemite Valley, which in some ways was not unlike being in downtown San Francisco – until you looked up.

Still, the thunderous roar of the waterfalls, the grandeur of the granite and the ancient trees, scars and all, made the trip completely worthwhile. Also, much of the drive from the park to Mariposa follows the racing Merced River, a river I would follow any day. And once in town, Savoury’s serves bacon-wrapped dates, grilled shrimp and good crusty bread.

Though wildflowers are late this year due to a chilly, rainy spring, some lupine was showing off along the drive, and around one bend was a hillside of delicate pink flowers. I imagined painting them. I remembered that I can’t draw, much less paint. Then I imagined painting them anyway.

Other highlights along the way (in no particular order) include:

·      The Altamont Pass Wind Farm 40 miles east of Oakland, with 4,930 wind turbines twirling atop grassy yellow hills.

·      A roadside stand in Big Oak Flat (pop. 200) named “Tie Dye and Jerky.” That is exactly what’s for sale.

·      The first view of Don Pedro Lake, a reservoir in a beautiful canyon carved by the Tuolumne River.

·      A sign advertising “Tequila Tuesdays” at a bar outside Oakdale. (Rats, it was a Thursday.)

·      Roadside fruit and nut stands near Escalon, which features miles of orchards. At The Barn, owner Denise Crom displays a “produce prayer flag” made of brightly colored fabric squares depicting fresh produce of all sorts.

·      A turkey sandwich on rye from Dori’s Tea Cottage in Groveland, a charming place just down the road from a sign announcing “Church Meets in the Park Every Sunday at 10:30 a.m.”

All this – and trees with important lessons to teach!

In honor of the giant sequoias in Yosemite National Park, I hope you will consider helping support all 394 national parks, reserves and monuments by making a donation to the National Park Foundation at www.nationalparks.org.

Just Another Day

The parade of leather-bedecked S&M fans (including the domineering and the dominated) was just one highlight of a much-needed vacation day that turned into one adventure after another, including driving an amphibious vehicle in McCovey Cove, talking with another cancer survivor on a bench in Union Square and quacking like a duck. Wait – I forgot the Italian potstickers!

The day started with a plan – a trip to North Beach to soak up the atmosphere in the historic City Lights Books, a spot I first visited so long ago that I can’t remember when it was. In any case, the store has three floors of books, with three or four chairs in each room and signs that encourage customers to sit and read. In the Poet’s Room, another sign reads: “We’re sort of a library that sells books.”

Even though I got rid of 46 boxes of books before moving to San Francisco, even though I have (and really like) a Kindle, even though I have vowed not to bring home books, I bought one – Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s “San Francisco Poems.” So be it.

Next I went to the Beat Museum (www.thebeatmuseum.org/index.html) to commune with the spirits of the people I used to quote in high school and college and still admire immensely. Owner and curator Jerry Cimino was there, and we compared Baby Boomer backgrounds and the influence the beat poets had on both of us.

Long live the works of Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Kerouac and Corso!

Cimino recommended Calzone’s, just up the street, for lunch – what a great idea. The owner has developed Italian potstickers – steamed wontons filled with Italian sausage, wild mushrooms and spices. Yum! The arugula salad with garbanzo beans, sun-dried tomatoes and Point Reyes blue cheese was good too. Then I popped into a chocolate shop for a free taste of fudge and bought a bear claw – pecans and caramel drizzled with dark chocolate. (It later melted in the sun, alas.)

Next I boarded a bus heading for Union Square, where I planned to catch the Muni train home – but the sun was shining and people were sitting out, basking in it, so I decided to join them. I eavesdropped on an elderly Indian gentleman telling fortunes (he had a line of customers waiting). Then I bought an iced latte and sat down on a bench near a man who turned out to be a classical music reviewer for the Berkshire Review. (See http://berkshirereview.net/) We talked about music, fashion, food and living in San Francisco – and we also compared Baby Boomer backgrounds and the influence the 60s had on both of us.

Then, with little advance planning, I bought a ticket and hopped on a “duck” (http://sanfrancisco.ridetheducks.com/home) because it was a perfect day to be on the water. It was the last trip of the day, and there were just three of us – a Canadian couple originally from South Africa and me. The driver was especially chatty, and we all compared stories. We headed into the water just south of the ballpark – and then the driver let us take turns steering the duck!

That was exciting -- but that was only the beginning.

On the way back to Union Square, Captain Duck Rogers drove us along the Embarcadero. He knows everybody and everybody knows him, so as we cruised (on land by now) in the open-air duck through the popular tourist area, people waved and smiled – but not just the Captain’s friends. He played “We Are Family” and got people on the streets singing, clapping, even dancing along. As we drove through North Beach, he played songs in Italian. In Chinatown, he played “I Will Survive” in Chinese. People at sidewalk cafes, people shopping in the markets, even people at bus stops, heard us first and then joined in. All along the route, Captain Rogers called out, “Happy Friday the 13^th” to one and all. 

It was a rowdy ride, and that felt great!

The N Muni train was crowded – and considerably more sedate -- when I got on at the Powell Street Station. But just past the Church and Duboce stop, those of us looking north saw the S&M parade, which consisted of about 20 people. Maybe this is a regular event on Fridays, or maybe we were just lucky. No one on the N said a word, not even the people who were stretching for a better look. This parade took place just two days before Bay to Breakers (http://zazzlebaytobreakers.com/), a 12k footrace that is the talk of the town. “People run in costume. People run naked. And a lot of the people run drunk,” said Captain Rogers when he filled us in on things to do this weekend.

What a day!

My last Runaway Day was two weekends ago, when I spent much of Saturday driving in West Marin, driving through beach towns (one has a bakery and a Goddess Shop), driving through hilly pastures (wondering if cows ever blow over in the gusty wind), driving to Drake’s Beach on the Point Reyes Peninsula (home of a sand sculpture contest) and driving through redwoods in Samuel P. Taylor State Park (where green equals serene). I only drove 120 miles round trip, and it was a remarkable day, filled with unexpected pleasures -- including turkey vultures that swooped low over the car.

I live here! And believe it or not, I’ve been here almost 11 months!   

Serendipitous Adventures in San Francisco

Giants' Opening Day: April 8, 2011

At Walgreen’s this afternoon, I overheard the young man behind the counter tell another worker that he is a big Giants’ fan but his favorite baseball player is Albert Pujols.

I get that, so I spoke up.

Regular readers may recall in the November 4 blog post I confessed to committing post-season treason, having come under the spell of the feisty, freaky Giants after moving here. And yet after a 50-year relationship with the Cardinals, I have some tender feelings for them as well.

I told the young man at Walgreen's that a week ago, I bought a ticket on StubHub to the Giants’ home opener, on April 8, against the Cardinals. Okay, I paid about what I used to pay for a winter coat at Marshall’s when I was working full time, but I paid because I really wanted to be at that game. I just couldn't imagine enjoying it on television when all the excitement was taking place only four miles away. 

Yesterday morning, the forecast called for 56 degrees and 15-25 mph winds. The ballpark sits in a cove, right on the water. I put on the following: A black cami, a long-sleeved black t-shirt, a long-sleeved black sweatshirt, my Tim Lincecum t-shirt, my whale-watching long johns, fleece-lined wind-proof leggings, black wool sock liners, fuzzy orange socks, one baseball earring and one Cardinal earring. I topped it all off with a fleece jacket and packed a wool scarf, wool gloves, a fleece headband and a wool hat.

That, dear Cardinals fans, is what it takes to feel comfortable at a ballgame in San Francisco. I felt great – even when I discovered I was in the very last row. Before I made the climb, I thought it might be like dangling from the blimp, but it was just fine. Nice people were on either side of me, no one was in front of me (just the long stairs leading down) and I was directly above home plate. I could see the entire park, the party boats in the cove and seafaring container ships entering and leaving, guided by tugs.

I teared up when the Cards took the field. I teared up when the Giants took the field. I loved it all, right up until the 11th inning, when Tony wouldn't let the Cards pitch to any of the Giants and the Giants’ pitchers (and we saw a lot of them) couldn’t seem to catch a break from the umpire, whose strike zone was all over the place. I know better, but I left the game – and I had a lot of company. On the Muni, we all cheered when a guy on his phone called out that the Giants won in the 12th inning.

You might think eight hours of baseball was enough (I left the apartment at 10:30 a.m. and got home at 7 p.m.), but I watched the last inning on the TIVO recording.

Of course I didn't tell the young man at Walgreen's all that, but we did talk about some highlights -- and there were many. To encourage him to continue to talk to customers, especially old women who usually are ignored in stores, later today I went back to Walgreen's and gave this same young man the 2011 Giants calendar that I received at the ballpark yesterday. He was thrilled.

To backtrack a bit: On that first walk to Walgreen's, I encountered a sidewalk sale. Diane and John were selling books, shelves and some of Diane’s clothing because she recently retired. As it happens, Diane and I have the same taste. She had my favorite brands – Flax, We Be Bop, Blue Fish and a designer I didn’t know but who clearly knows me. There on the corner I removed my fleece jacket and my San Francisco sweatshirt and tried on some of the outfits. No one walking by paid any attention – except the two other short, round women who stopped to try on clothes too.

One more magic moment to report on: Wednesday, I went with my friends Nancy and Betty-Lou to dinner at the home of two of their dearest friends. The company, the food and the conversation all were terrific, plus there was a bonus.

A redwood tree with six thick trunks grows right alongside the wooden deck in the long, narrow backyard. I learned that in the mid-1940s, someone who lived in the house brought home a tiny redwood sprout in a small cup and planted it, probably expecting nothing. What grew was private redwood forest that towers high over the house.

I went out on the deck for a minute to pay homage to the tree -- yet another serendipitous adventure here in my amazing new hometown.

Bravo Baseball, Ballet, Sunshine and Italian Food

Walking the perimeter at AT&T park at a Giants’ pre-season exhibition game, I popped in at Orlando’s Caribbean BBQ. Not for a crab cake or barbecue – I eat burnt hot dogs at ballparks, embracing all three known carcinogens just once a year.

I stopped in because after the ad for the eatery came up on the JumboTron, a vague memory unpacked itself from a box in the dusty attic of my past and presented me with a vision of a large Cardinals button that read, “Bravo, Bravo El Birdo!”

Orlando Cepeda, it seemed to me, had come up with the phase that led to the button.

“Sir,” I said to a smiling middle-aged fellow at the barbecue joint, “Wasn’t Orlando Cepeda a Cardinal at one time and didn’t he call his team ‘El Birdos’?“ The man considered my question.

“No,” he said. “He was never a Birdo. You are thinking of Albert Pujols.”

I was not thinking in any way of Albert Pujols, but I thanked the man and continued on my walking tour. (It was okay to be away from the action for a bit – there wasn’t any until the last 10 minutes of this particular game against Oakland.) When I got home, flushed with Giants Fever, I looked up Orlando Cepeda on line.

This Hall of Famer played for the Giants from 1958 to 1966 and then moved to the Cardinals, where he helped the Redbirds win the World Series in 1967 and the pennant the next year. Furthermore, Cepeda did nickname the Cardinals “El Birdos,” and his teammates called him “Cha Cha.” In 1967, Cepeda was elected as the National League MVP, the first unanimous selection for the award ever made.

In 1967 – San Francisco’s (in)famous “Summer of Love” -- I was 19. Bob Gibson was the Cardinal Pitcher Extraordinaire, and the roster also included Tim McCarver (now an erudite broadcaster), Roger Maris, Curt Flood, Lou Brock, Julien Javier, Dal Maxvill and Mike Shannon (the much-loved St. Louis broadcaster).

And somewhere in the apartment is my “Bravo, Bravo El Birdo!” button. Maybe. No disrespect to Albert Pujols, of course.

“Bravo” was on the tip of my tongue in another context this week when I went to see Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre in Berkeley. Founded in 1958, this is a company I have seen four or five times, dating back to the early ‘80s. I think I may even have reviewed a performance or two for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.

As always, the performance Tuesday night was glorious, visually compelling and emotionally rewarding. And as always, “Revelations” – first produced in 1960 – brought down the house, with audience members all the way to the back row (where we sat) applauding and begging for more.

Another highlight this week (besides the Southern California weather visiting here in Northern California) was an outstanding plate of spaghetti and meatballs at Osteria, where I was invited to celebrate Susan’s birthday with her lifelong friends. Usually, I have the salmon, but this dish appealed and did not disappoint.

Baseball, ballet, balmy days and meatballs – perfect! 

Delights: Artistic, Culinary, Domestic, and Meteorological

What a week!

First, the artistic experience: Went to the de Young Museum Wednesday with Betty-Lou and Nancy to see Bouquets to Art, some 150 floral arrangements spread throughout the museum, all designed by florists and garden clubs to interpret or complement art in the museum’s collection.

The floral homage to Superman was the funniest. A crowd favorite was a small dog, made completely of plants and flowers, with drooping petals for ears. Some arrangements were inspired, even breathtaking. Some were confusing. Some, I think I could have done myself in a free afternoon. Or maybe not.

Then it was off to Bursa in West Portal for a shrimp kebob, wonderful creamy hummus and a HUGE glass of my beloved Zinfandel. What a great place! More glorious food on Thursday, when Susan called to say she was inviting the family over for corned beef and cabbage for St. Patrick’s Day.

Alas – I was the only one who could make it, but what a wonderful evening! One moment of panic on the bus, where everyone – Asians, African Americans, Caucasians – was wearing green except me. I had on my blue San Francisco sweatshirt and jeans. Oops! On the other hand, I wear my face every day, and it has Irish tendencies, to be sure.

Susan had set the table with a green and white tablecloth and napkins, yellow tulips, a wee flag of Ireland, a shamrock garland and assorted St. Pat’s Day trinkets. The place looked great but the décor was quickly overshadowed by the food. Oh – the food! Mouth-watering corned beef, a colorful mixture of boiled vegetables (pass me another potato, please) and the best Irish soda bread I’ve ever had in or outside of Ireland. 

We swapped stories of our Irish heritage, toasted our native counties, and spoke of our mutual desire to go to Ireland with our children to introduce them to the culture. (Considering I can’t get anybody to go to Disneyland with me, getting to the Emerald Isle may not happen either.) Then I do believe we sang a bit of “Danny Boy.”

All this – and Susan sent me home with plenty of leftovers. In 24 hours, I have devoured my weight in Irish soda bread, toasted and smeared with butter and apricot preserves. I didn’t mean to pig out, yet my waking thought this morning was, “I must have Irish soda bread for breakfast.” It tastes like cake.

How good is this bread? It’s so good that I have asked Susan to make Irish soda bread for my birthday instead of a cake. I made my legendary tiramisu for her birthday, and for the first time in a long time, it turned out “tiramisoupy,” runny instead of custardy. Susan’s son, Michael, kindly said maybe an atmospheric difference between San Francisco and St. Louis caused it. Then he gamely spooned out a serving. I have no idea, but will give it another go.      

On the Domestic Delights scene, after much research (on line, on the phone and in the form of actual driving expeditions), I decided what cookware to buy to replace mine, which was unsuited for the radiant glass cooktop on my lovely stove, which was delivered just days before I moved into the apartment. The cookware I brought to San Francisco was deemed likely to scratch the cooktop, and the worst-case scenario had it overheating and fusing to the glass.

No, really! I talked to the people who made the stove and the people who made the cookware and I read accounts by people who had experienced just such upsetting events.

Anyway, I headed out in the car Wednesday morning, determined to buy one particular product. When I got to the store I changed my mind -- downsizing the dollars spent but still choosing lovely cookware that will not harm my stove. I left the mall through a back entrance and promptly got lost.

Looking up and down streets to get my bearings, I noticed really enthusiastic waves, waves I knew needed to see up close. My new cookware and I headed west until I reached the Great Highway, with the churning water just beyond. I parked and scrambled up the sand – it was magnificent! I waved to migrating gray whales (I couldn't see them,  but I know they saw me) and headed back to the car.

As though crashing waves weren’t enough excitement, this morning a funnel dropped from a cloud and played splish-splash just off Ocean Beach. I didn’t see it in person, but this video is fun: http://sfist.com/2011/03/18/video_small_cloud_funnel_touches_do.php

Technically, a funnel cloud over water is called a waterspout, known as a “non-supercell tornado over water.” Still, I thought it was super. An hour later, tiny balls of ice pelted my wall of windows – hail! And tonight we had a thunderstorm, with great flashes of lightning and pouring rain. So many meteorological delights!

Of Magic 8 Balls and the Oscars

Remember those Magic 8 Balls -- the Mattel toy that pretended to tell the future? You would ask a yes-or-no question, turn the ball in your hand and peek in the cloudy window to see your answer. Usually, the answer made no sense whatsoever.

Magic 8 Balls were developed in 1950. They are out, over, now merely nostalgic souvenirs, sometimes found in retro shops. I haven't used one in years. Now, late at night,  I sit at the computer and ask Google, “What’s the best way to get to the San Francisco airport?”

(Yes, this is crazy – but not as crazy as when I used to type, “When will the condo sell?” And “Where will I find an apartment I can afford?” And “Will the condo sell soon?)

In its way, Google is no more satisfying than the Magic 8 Ball. Does it tell me whether I should book a taxi, reserve a spot on a shuttle, drive my own car or take BART to the airport? No.

I know from experience that taxis do not always come when called. (See the Sept. 24 post.) On Yelp, I found reviews dissing every airport shuttle service in town, complaining about being stranded completely or, worse, being picked up on time but making so many stops en route to the airport that people missed their flights. Also, apparently no airport shuttle companies in town actually answer their phones.

If I drive myself – and I do trust me to leave home on time, park and make the flight – I am worried that when I get back home a couple days later, there will be no place to park my car. (See the July 21 post.) And I really don’t want to drag my bag and haul my backpack on two buses and BART.  I love riding the Muni when I’m out playing or even going to appointments, but making my way to the airport on public transportation right now sounds like a drag.

Is money an issue? Yes. And no. A taxi one way will be $40-$45. A shuttle will cost $17 plus tip one way. Driving and parking will be about $70 total. Public transportation would cost $10 round trip. I’m careful about my money, especially now that Lee Enterprises (publisher of the Post-Dispatch) helps themselves to half my pension each month as payment for health insurance I was promised would be free for life. (My life, not the life of Lee’s tolerance for unions.) But I also am willing to pay for convenience, especially when traveling.

“You’re over-thinking this,” says my son. Yep. That’s how I survive. I over-think and then make a decision and move on to the next problem to be solved. I’ve been taking good care of myself since I got divorced in 1980, and I don't apologize for my methods.   

Skipping merrily off to another topic here, I do apologize for setting aside this evening to watch the 83^rd Academy Awards. Thirty minutes in, shortly after the excellent Morgan Freeman’s part of the show was over, I declared on Facebook that the show sucked. Somehow it got worse as the evening went on. And then even worse.

I played a few Scrabble games on line, tried to keep myself from being drawn in to the hideously depressing world and national news in the New York Times and chatted with a friend. Okay, I also looked up more reviews of airport shuttles.

Fast-forwarding through the Oscars show, I did find myself transfixed a time or two by the statue itself because earlier this week I met two actual Oscar winners. On the mantel in their living room were two Oscars and two Emmys. Ever cool and sophisticated, when I saw the statues, I blurted, “Wow! I’m looking at Oscars and Emmys!”

The occasion, part of an incredibly kind and generous “Introduce Pat to Our Friends” project undertaken by old friend Nancy and new friend Betty-Lou, was a visit to the home of two extraordinary people, gifted filmmakers and bright, fun individuals. We sat in their kitchen, drinking tea and nibbling on outstanding fig bread and cookies, talking for hours about our lives, movies, our kids, theater, our health problems, and books.

We laughed a lot, too, most unexpectedly when I mentioned my cat. Suddenly, the couple’s two dogs raced for the back door, barking and snarling and ready to protect their property from any marauding felines. I once had a dog that knew the words “bye-bye” and “walk,” but these dogs heard “cat” and went wild. When I realized what I had said, I immediately began to refer to the cat as an iguana, an elephant, even an okapi, in hopes of calming the dogs.

Anyway, it was a wonderful afternoon of leisure and delight that nicely leavened a week otherwise full of work -- and wondering how best to get to the airport. It’s just a transportation detail. I’ll get there.