"I was filled with so much hate until I saw the Golden Gate." -- Hello Saferide
03.05.2010
I've decided to avoid jet lag by refusing to change my sleeping habits. Thus, I'm awake at 5:30 in the morning, sitting at my desk with my Moleskine. The sun is rising over the Bay. What an inspiring way to start the weekend.
I skip the continental breakfast offered by the conference and go to Blue Bottle Cafe. It's located in an unmarked storefront at an intersection of two sidestreets that should really be called alleyways. I order a bowl of pecan granola -- super-fresh, very tender, makes the milk taste like honey and cinnamon -- and a coffee.
My coffee takes five minutes to prepare because each cup is drip-brewed to order. It's THE best cup of coffee I've ever had in my life. The smoothness, the depth of flavor. Words cannot describe either.
The two cute hipsters from the airplane walk into Blue Bottle when I have an inch of coffee left. The cuter one and I lock eyes a few times, but he offers no sign of familiarity. I'm not sure he recognizes me without my glasses.
I find a seat in the back of the massive conference hall, but I don't know anything about prostate cancer aside from the bare-bones basics and the stuff related to clinical trial design. The presenters could be speaking Greek and I wouldn't know any better.
Actually, I think I understand Greek better than I understand how androgen deprivation and Gleason scores work.
There are ridiculously few women at this conference. There are also ridiculously many handsome young men wearing wedding rings.
Traditional open radical prostatectomy and robotic radical prostatectomy result in very different pelvic anatomies after healing, but radiation fields are only optimized for the former. Interesting.
We break for lunch. I decide to take my PI's advice and spend the rest of the day walking the streets of San Francisco.
I didn't realize San Francisco has hills.
Yes, I've seen Full House.
Yes, I've seen pictures of Lombard Street.
I always thought the hills looked worse than they really are!
They're really worse than they look.
Fisherman's Wharf is my first stop. It feels like a tourist trap, and as a New Yorker, I'm trained to neither patronize nor linger in tourist traps. Plus, it was sad seeing so many lethargic-looking sea lions in one place.
It doesn't seem like it would be too difficult to swim to the mainland from Alcatraz.
From Pier 39, I walk west along the Barbary Coast Trail to Fort Mason. I enjoy a crab cake from a street stand and a Ghirardelli's hot chocolate along the way.
Seagulls : SF :: Pigeons : NY. They are FEARLESS. One male -- a male, might I add, so large that he could easily feed a family of six if roasted correctly -- stands in my way and caws at me when I try to make him move.
I try to kick him. He flaps a few feet to the right and gives me the stink-eye.
No, really:
The Golden Gate Bridge really is stunning. Maybe all those hills were worth it.
My return trip is strategically plotted to avoid as many hills as possible, so I end up walking the entire length of Grant Avenue. A few blocks in, a very elderly Asian man says "beautiful!" as I pass him. Aw.
A few blocks later, another very elderly Asian man says "beautiful!" as I pass him. I start to suspect that "beautiful" is Canto for "ha ha look at the stupid white girl who didn't realize San Francisco has hills."
My cheeks are slightly sunburned. I'll have freckles by next week.
Three new blisters. I treat my feet to a long soak and lots of bandaging before I dress for dinner.
Hana Zen for yakitori. I let the waiter order for me. He chooses well.
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