Fat Sam’s disco.

San Francisco bound, we have spare minutes for a stop in the newly touristic and moneyed town of Monterey. Recently overhauled, it is possible to view the facade of old faded livery on the high sided corrugated buildings, with some clues to the original fishy, functioning industries here.

Monterrey appears a safe haven for the very rich and very old, complete with a perfectly pitched, restaurant franchise at the center of the harbour town. The sight of the overly-sentimental Bubba Gump Shrimp restaurants (from the film Forest Gump) are as frequent and popular as Mcdonalds in this region. Demographically speaking, I wonder if it is in fact possible to order a “grumpy” meal here?

After a thesaurus reference too far, we walk the excursionist edacious Cannery Row and return to an assault from the Monterrey parking Gestapo. We are criminalised for parking the wrong way on a two way street, incurring a fine for the “dangerous” 180 degree rotation of the parked (and very stationary indeed) Treehouse van.

Utter, utter, fascist bastards.

Even the sweet, sweet flavour of an impromptu curry lunch cannot quell our contempt for the over zealous traffic terrorists. May all your papercuts be wide and your penises stinkier than they are short. Goodbye Monterrey.

Despite our planned intentions we fortuitously bypass the town of Santa Cruz (we find out later we avoid a heated, city wide political protest that closes down the streets of Santa Cruz) and go straight to San Francisco.

The most accessible campsite to us is Candlestick Park, the home of the American football team, the 49ers (We um and ah wether to Van-camp underneath the Golden Gate Bridge but trip advisor reviews warn us of loud truck horns keeping sleepy peeps awake). Camping is not cheap in North America and we spend nearly sixty dollars a night to camp in the picturesque overflow of the American football stadium car park. The site is around seven miles out of the center of Fran San, which is notoriously heavy with car traffic, so we plan to take a shuttle into the center the following morning.

That night, the weather turns nasty and the long walk across the car park to the toilet becomes an entirely soddening experience. Subsequently I convert the van into an ensuite toilet by sliding the van door backwards, micturating outwardly onto the already puddle oppressed car park. Lucy is impressed, horrified and jealous (in equal parts) by the ingenuity of my laziness.

The next morning, our shuttlebus battles through a thickset of traffic that we had been warned not to attempt to penetrate by the lonely planet bible. The driver weaves through the heft of post rush hour traffic expertly working the grid system, getting us to our destination in under an hour. He drops us off in the centre of Chinatown, which is a short walk from union square.

As we walk to union square the concentration of seemingly overstocked shops flaunt their oriental wares. Some sell mysterious animal bits, (I’m guessing sternum of starfish, cankle of cat) whilst other vendors tout pointy ninja weapons that are very clearly marked “NOT FOR EXPORT”. Golden cats perpetually wave at us from shop windows and red lantern lines zigzag above our heads. Chinatown’s dense food markets are a bugger to walk past as the outflow of people clogs the pavement forcing us onto the streets, creating standoffs with oncoming traffic. We exit the giant China town gate and soon reach union square just in time for another rainstorm.

We escape into the safety of Macy’s department store, take the elevator up to Costa Coffee and order a bacon ‘n’ egg muffin and hot chocolate breakfast. From a sweet vantage point we gain a snipers eye view onto union square to see the Christmas preparations in full swing. A giant Christmas tree casts a festive shadow onto a pop up ice rink. Heavy rain prevents any ice skating today.

After our ketchup-less breakfast, (disgusted) we check out Macy’s Christmas lane department which fantastically glitters and gleams with festive adornments. The pinnacle of the collection is the fast food, Christmas tree decorations. A coruscation of sparkling donuts, burgers and fries dazzle the eyes. Ornamental Sugar canes and candies also contribute to the list of the diabetes inducing deification. An enticing glow of preparation for christmas is somewhat reassuring and it is hard not to get swept up by the festive proceedings. We feel all Christmassy.

The next morning we travel to Fisherman’s wharf and eat a hulking brunch on the restaurant strip. We hang out with the mass of stinky seals on pier 39 who pose for photos and frolic in the bright Californian sunshine. The story goes, after an earthquake hit San Francisco, the seals just moved onto the pier and like inconsiderate fishy-breathed house guests, they simply didn’t leave in the morning.

The steepest hills in the Windy City are absolutely fierce. Walking is simply not an option here. In what is annoyingly called a cable car (it’s a tram), we hop on the refurbished vehicle and get a free ride around the eminent streets of San Francisco. The dual drivers heave the large brass, clunky levers and are aggressive in its operation. A double ding on the bell starts the cable car (tram) in motion and takes us all the way from Fisherman’s wharf to the center of the city.

Over the next few days we begin the slightly odd but sort of essential preparations for a wedding.

Our wedding.
The one in which we plan to get married.
To each other.
Weird.

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STOP the tape.
Press REWIND on tape now. Go back four years and press PLAY.

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In a black and white bar in the city of Nottingham, Ryan and Lucy are relieving pint glasses of the burden of their contents. They are at a wedding reception for some of their good friends in which many drinks follow many drinks. Conversation naturally turns to marriage and the state of some point being in it.

“If we ever get married, there is only one place I want to do it, and that’s in Vegas. If we ever go to Vegas, we will get married.” Said Ryan.

“Ok, deal” said Lucy.

The conversation sticks in the memory and is remembered in the morning. The stickiness of the memory stays stuck all the way into plans to go on a round the world trip in 2013.

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STOP the tape.
Press FAST FORWARD on tape now. Go forward four years and press PLAY.

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In terms of Vegas, the wedding event silently creeps closer. Just like a pretendedly modest iceberg creeping up on a luxury cruise liner, it seemed so far away but suddenly looms over us (MARRIAGE ICEBERG, DEAD AHEAD!). We have a few items to purchase (primarily Lucy’s wedding costume and some colour coordinated, red high-top converse pour moi). We take the number 71 bus to the Haights section of the city which is well known to be the origin of the American hippy movement. The shops alternate between expensive vintage clothing boutiques, weed smoking paraphernalia dens and hipster bars selling their own microhipstery beers. The Hippies have been replaced by Hipsters and homeless people who make the most of the overcrowded rush hour buses by sneaking on to the back entrance of the buses without paying.

It is on Haight street in which we go to a Bettie Paige Americana store which has potential dresses for Lucy to try on. Not wanting to wear something traditional, there is one in particular dress she has her eye on (a very cute, white Americana housewife style, 1950s dress). As Lucy tries alternative styles and sizes, I flick through a surprisingly racy picture book of Bettie page’s black and white, blush worthy ‘boudoir’ shots.

Lucy beckons me to the fitting room and it is at this point that it all becomes hyper-real.
Lucy pulls back the changing room curtain and my jaw hits the floor like a dog from a 1950s Warner Bros cartoon.

Lucy looks incredible.

Like a contra-zoom shot from Jaws, or a super slow bullet time rotation from the Matrix, the world’s gears grind to a standstill.

Absolutely Stunning.

For the sake of brevity in a blog which is already creaking in word count weight, I will save a full description of Lucy’s appearance until the wedding blog in Vegas. You’re just going to have to wait.

San Francisco’s pub and bar scene flourishes with a high ratio of tap rooms providing the wall paper for the bustling streets. On Haight street we frequent the recommended Magnolia bar which like frostbite, is painfully cool.

Our last night of camping in San Francisco is also the last time we sleep in our trusty Treehouse van. We leave the city taking the Golden Gate Bridge which looks mighty resplendent against the blue Californian skies. We point our wheels eastwards towards the mighty Yosemite and begin the journey inland, waving a fond farewell to the west coast, knowing we’ll be back someday.