I fell asleep to the sound of heavy rain and woke up to bright clear skies.
Breakfast. Spoke to Ross on the phone. Missing him. Wierd to think that he was talking of evening meal and I'd just had breakfast. Finally tracked down John Patrick and we arranged to meet after I get back from Seattle.
Then off to Alcatraz. First the 15 Trolley bus which took me up 3rd and I discover San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Then Over Market and up Stockton. Half way up we dive into a tunnel and come out the other side in Chinatown - which is extensive. Large posters everywhere proclaimed the recent New Year's Festival for the year 4697 (so top that all you Millennialists out there) - the year of the rabbit.
A left onto Columbus which is another one of those diagonals which slash across the grid pattern and suddenly everything's Italian. On and down til we hit Bay. I noticed another big Tower Records and make a date for later. Off to Pier 41 where I signed up for my Alcatraz trip.
There was an hour to kill so I found the sea lions basking on K Dock at Pier 39 and spent some time with them, bought myself a sandwich and found a good source of presents to take home - don't worry there was a sale which made things normal priced.
And then it was off on a ferry to the Prison in the Bay. I think I've encompassed most forms of travel now. Plane, foot, bus, trolley bus, cable car, tram car and now boat. I guess I haven't done train even though I pass the CAL Train terminus practically every day. It is a bit weedy though. There are something like 10 platforms and these seem to correspond one per daily departure.
The track goes down the peninsular but does not join up with anything. It's about a 30 mile journey. Weediest of all though is the fact that at the end of the journey, the train reverses, yes reverses, the full 30 miles. No shunting, no change of end for the train. It really looks quite poignant as it comes backing down the tracks.
So, it was a short and choppy ride across the Bay before we arrived at the Dock. Lots of rules and regulations and restrictions which are really no more than common sense. What is it with Americans that they need to be told everything? It is a dangerous world out there and if you don't want to get hurt then common sense will take you a long way.
A brisk uphill walk and I arrived at the cell block. Two things struck me immediately - one how small it was and two how familiar it was from all sorts of movies. I found myself taking photographs and the stopping short - after all this was a prison, some very nasty things happened here over the years, some very nasty people were resident here.
And then the chill of the place took hold. It was cold and drafty with a numbing, desolate atmosphere. Leaving the main block, for the recreation ground, there was a brief glimpse of the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. Glowing light from the external windows but also the sounds from the City - especially we were told on New Year's Eve with the laughter and fireworks of parties echoing across the water.
This was the place where those who could not be controlled were sent. The Birdman of Alcatraz was here. But again forget the movies. He did all of his bird studies in Fulsom Street Penitentiary. Couldn't get near a bird in Alcatraz. He was in Cell 42 in solitary for seven years. He was there because he was abusive, violent, psychopathic and the only thing they could think to do with him was to lock him away as far as possible from anyone else. Capone was here too. I'd always thought he was a big soft mamma's boy. Not so - big, thick-set street fighter. But the syphilis had already addled his brain by the time he was here.
All this and more, the escape routes, the individual cells, the naming of aisles after New York thoroughfares, Broadway, Park Avenue, Times Square, etc told of an internal mythology about the place. Like the streets of Northern Ireland, every paving stone had a history that was passed down from generation to generation, convict to convict, old hand to new. It would have been the way that you got through the days.
I spent about two and a half hours there and then had to get out. There was too much misery there though, in reality, what else did I expect. No-one is supposed to have escaped from the Rock but, since its closure, nature has re-asserted itself in flora and fauna. There is a small comfort there.
It was somewhat of a relief to be spending serious tourist dollars again on fridge magnets and tee-shirts at Pier 39. Then disaster. Back at Tower Record, looking still for Colin's requested CD, I found the first volume of Opera Rara's History of Nineteenth Century Italian Opera. I've been looking for this in the UK all over and at $65 it was actually cheaper there. I dithered initially but I did buy it.
Home, postcards, Steven arrived, eating out, Thai, fine but not something I would deliberately seek out again and then the movies - 200 cigarettes - slice of life movie featuring Ben Affleck populated by over-anxious, over-eager twenty-somethings. Some OK one-liners but, by the end, I cared little for any of the characters.
Home. Bed.