Which did I prefer? I’m not saying. Of course, Jamba Juice I’ll
take anytime, anywhere.

Northern Notes

"You’ve got to have the Rocket Fuel," Eric was saying, as we
turned the corner onto Graham Hill Road, in Felton. I’d been
hearing about the coffee in Santa Cruz for a great while now,
and I was hoping he hadn’t built it up for naught. Endless
complaints from Eric’s camp regarding the state of New York
coffee culture were more than validated as I took my first sip
of the brightest, cleanest, most potent coffee ever, ever ever!
Who knew that such coffee even existed! You know the kind,
dripped so perfectly, that the head is almost as thick
and creamy as an espresso? And then, when you pour the cream
into it, it takes on that perfect color of caramel? Oh my God, oh
my God, oh my God. I’m ecstatic. I want to kiss Eric, but then
again, maybe I don’t. His wife is sitting in the back seat of the car.

We head to the redwoods, taking a late-morning stroll through
the Henry Cowell State Park, and Annie is teaching me all about
the various types of flora and fauna found here on the forest
floor, and the types of redwoods we are seeing. We do all that
stuff from books that you hear about – wrapping our selves
around tree trunks, going inside hollow bases, the kind of
stuff your teacher made you watch slides of in fourth grade,
but you could never relate to.

Drip blend is nothing like it sounds – there’s a long row of
cones in a metal holding tray, and underneath it are cups,
placed, ready to receive. The beans are ground when the
coffee is ordered – you want Rocket Fuel, they scoop some
into the grinder, and through it goes. Filter goes into
cone, hot water is poured (slowly) around the edge, making
sure that no flavor or strength is wasted by overpouring.
You remove the cup, and you drink. It gets no better then this.

We are in Davenport, climbing down the rear of the cove, making
doubly sure to avoid the poison oak – once at the base, we cross
the sand to the mass of rocks jutting out into the water – waves
crash up onto them, leaving thick foam to shake itself off – the fury
with which ocean meets rock is astounding. An elderly couple is
making out in a cave to the left. We take pictures. It’s so green
here, so otherworldly – they could film movies here, and pass it
off for Ireland. I swear. More coffee at the Whale City Bakery.
This time, French Italian. It’s good, but I want more Rocket Fuel.

I spend my entire visit in a frightful state of over-caffeination – it’s
coffee heaven, with good brew at every turn – I want to try it all.
I say a lot of things I can’t remember, I make some statements
that now seem silly. Blame it on the coffee. It’s so perfect, there’s
so much of it, I have to make the best use of my time.

Sacramento Street in San Francisco is like a picture postcard,
at least here in Pacific Heights where we are slumming in Eric’s
nephew’s apartment. We have it to ourselves – they are out of
town. I walk to Alta Plaza Park a block over, and make my way
up the steep hill to the crest, where to one side it drops sharply
to the Marina, and beyond to the Bay, the other side a vista of
the western half of the city. Nob Hill blocks our view of downtown,
but then again, I can see skylines any day. Fillmore Street is
cluttered with coffee bars, but none as good as Santa Cruz.

San Francisco is a nice town – ask me what I didn’t see – we
did damn near everything – what we didn’t do, I did after they
went home. North Beach, Coit Tower, SoMa, Chinatown,
Fisherman’s Wharf, Ghirardelli Square, Pacific Heights (natch),
The Castro, Haight-Ashbury, The Presidio, Union Square,
The Tenderloin. Okay, you see all that in three days, then what?
And contrary to popular opinion, while driving can be somewhat
frustrating, it’s really quite manageable. Except Market Street.
Stay the hell off of that. What a confusing business – cable cars,
electric buses, stay-in-your-lane messes, no-turn-from-this-lane –
I had to take it from Van Ness damn near up to Castro before
I could figure out how to turn left. Which also says something
about the size of the city. It’s pretty damn small. Someone in
love with New York could get rather bored with this place. Quick.

My favorite impression is that San Franciscans do love their
dirty movies and strip clubs. Everywhere you turn, there’s sex,
sex sex. Naughty, naughty people. How odd, in such a
pretty-as-picture town, the seamy underbelly is all the more
seamy. Perhaps, it’s more of a regional center for misbehavior,
perhaps it’s all locally supported. But it did put things into
perspective nicely, regarding Eighth Avenue.

We’re really not missing much.

Perhaps my happiest memories of the Bay Area are the
Golden Gate headlands, Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, and
Skyline Drive (running from the San Lorenzo Valley to San Bruno).

Many happy returns, to be sure.

Southern Sights and Sounds

"This place is like, sooo funky," I near-gushed to the porn-star
turned barista behind the counter. She was the spitting image of
my L.A. cliché woman/porn queen – platinum blonde, heavy
makeup, perky breasts, a withering stare. She did smile for a
moment, then handed me my coffee, which I really didn’t want,
but felt compelled to order, as if I could somehow justify my
spending time here if I was drinking coffee instead of just
looking around, like some pervert.

It was the first time I’d talked to anyone besides a waitress
in a restaurant since my visit here – Los Angeles can be a
lonely place if you don’t know people – stuck in your car all
the time, you begin to resent intrusions on your privacy, while
all at once crying out inwardly for human contact.

I am at Hustler Hollywood, the first adult bookstore I have
ever known of to venture into super-store territory. It’s all
glass, lighting and wood paneling, like an ultra-modern
Borders – everything clearly visible from outdoors, friendly
enough staff that rings up Anal Rooters # 68 just as calmly
as they would the latest John Grisham novel at a bookstore.
(I’m making a point here, not speaking on a personal
level, mind you.)

Couples, single folk, gay, lesbian, straight, all mingle in the
video section, just as naturally as you please, folks take
piles of books on subjects deemed unnatural to café tables
to peruse, while drinking their White Hot Ass-Fuck
double-strength cappucino, or Dripping Wet Chocolate
Pussy mocha. I would have ordered one of said beverages,
but even I couldn’t imagine the words falling from my lips
in the presence of an insanely attractive female I’d never
met before.

I shit you not, children – I tells it like I sees it.

Other favorite thing about Los Angeles: Cruising the city
at night, smoking Nat Sherman’s (from the Country Store
on Laurel Canyon Road) and listening to Loveline on KROQ.
Don’t ask me why, but for me, this WAS L.A. I drove every
freeway, boulevard and street from Silver Lake to Santa
Monica, enjoying having the roads all to myself, even at
11:00PM. Boy, those Californians really go to bed early.

And oh yes – Heaven has a name – it is called
Jamba Juice. Can I live here?

But never, never, never was I so happy to ride the B train
as I was the morning after I arrived home. My God, I
thought – there are people, all around me – all colors,
shapes and sizes. The idiot next to me is talking to
himself, inviting me to join in. I decline, but I am happy
he’s talking.