San Francisco Bay located in the vicinity of the Golden Gate Bridge (77FR4501)

For whatever reason, San Francisco has never really been on my radar as a travel-destination priority. At least on the West Coast, Los Angeles and Seattle seemed like the more unique and essential places to visit. Sadly, what I knew about San Francisco just seemed kind of car-commercial cliché. 

But in our long weekend there, that didn't stop us from seeing many of the town's requisite tourist traps. We avoided the crowds by seeing some, the Golden Gate Bridge (top left) and Alcatraz Island (top right), from a distance. We jostled with the masses from middle America at Pier 39 (middle top left) and the Ferry Building (middle top right). We stumbled upon some hidden gems in the forms of Buena Vista Park (middle bottom left) and Sutro Baths, below the Land's End overlook of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area (middle bottom right). We tried to blend in with the locals at Haight Ashbury (bottom left) and Chinatown (bottom right).

 

 

One trap we didn't fall into was waiting in the ungodly long lines to ride a cable car (top). Most tourists queue up for one of the Powell Street cars because they are located near must-see sights like the Union Square theater and shopping district, Fisherman's Wharf, and Ghirardelli Square. Instead, we picked up the California line by walking from our hotel through Little Saigon to catch it on its western end, near Japantown. We rode the car through Chinatown down to the Financial District (bottom). We also avoided the line for buying a transit passport by paying a $3 surcharge at an SFMTA machine. The three-day pass allowed us unlimited rides on all cable-car, metro, bus, and streetcar lines and on BART lines within the downtown area. To get to and from the airport, we had to buy full-price BART tickets for $8.50 a piece.  

All in all, San Francisco is a wonderful city to visit because of its abundant and useful public transportation. We had rented a car for a couple of days, but even so, we rode the Marin Transit shuttle to Muir Woods National Monument because there is limited parking at the park (If we had wanted, we could've taken public transportation from downtown San Francisco to the shuttle, as well). With all the visitors, it seemed like we wouldn't be able to enjoy the serenity of the redwoods, but we were able to find pockets of peace (top). We even learned a few things: The height and breadth of the trees are less than sequoias, but nonetheless impressive (bottom left), and surprisingly, salmon spawn in the stream that runs through the park when the water level is higher (bottom right).

 

Another good reason to visit San Francisco is the food, which runs the gauntlet in terms of type and cost. We had a gourmet picnic with sandwiches from Prather Ranch Meat Company (top left) and clams from the Ferry Plaza Wine Market (top right) on the dock outside the Ferry Building. We snacked on emblematic sourdough bread from Boudin Bakery (middle left) and dim-sum dumplings at Far East Cafe (middle right). We sampled the ethnic specialties of Vienamese noodles at Miss Saigon (bottom left), Italian pizza at Chicos, and Indian curry at Sartaj Indian Cafe in Sausalito (bottom right).

 

And much to our surprise and delight, San Francisco is full of dive bars; we encountered one in nearly every neighborhood in which we wandered. In Chinatown, we killed some time before our departing flight with a Lucky Buddha beer and a mai tai at Li Po Cocktail Lounge (top left). We tracked down an excellent happy hour at Aunt Charlie's in the Tenderloin (top right). Nearby, The Brown Jug (bottom left) and The Outsider (bottom right) both embraced their status, each proclaiming to be the best dive bar in town. (In my opinion it was a tie; at the Brown Jug, a man drinking whisky was sleeping while sitting up on a bar stool, and at the Outsider, a man was describing in broken English and demonstrating provocatively his lust for black women.)

Oh, and did I mention that, amid all the activity of our weekend getaway, TJ ran a 50-mile race? Indeed, the Headlands 100 was the main impetus for our overdue visit to San Francisco. Call him crazy if you wish, but at least TJ wasn't one of the people running the 100-mile race (though don't be shocked if you see that in a future blog post). About the only time we saw San Francisco's characteristic fog was when TJ was preparing for the race's start (left). It was so damp and chilly that, when he set off, he was wearing gloves and a long-sleeve shirt (right). 

While TJ ran, I drove around from aid station to aid station with his gear (top left), in case he had any major emergencies or minor issues (for the record, the only ones were needs for knee braces and Vaseline replenishment; if you don't know what the latter is for, ask a runner). This race was nice in that the aid stations were in state and national parks that I would want to visit anyway, such as Muir Beach and Tennessee Valley. TJ was pretty low-maintenance, so all I had to do was chat to him while he stretched (top right), help him hydrate (bottom left), and fill up his water bottles for the road (bottom right) -- when I wasn't taking pictures of him doing so, of course. 

One of the aid stations was near the former U.S. Army post Fort Baker in the Marin Headlands, which provided excellent views of an overcast downtown San Francisco (top) and Golden Gate Bridge (bottom left). As the day went on, the clouds burned off, so by the time TJ came through a second time (the race consisted of a 25-mile loop), I could catch him with the landmark unobscured (bottom right). Besides taking photos, I spent my time at the aid stations setting up the supplies, helping other runners refuel, and directing them where to go (after, say, a marathon distance, trail markers can become harder to follow).

 

The race loop ended where it began, at Rodeo Beach, near Fort Barry in the headlands (top). The fort, not to be confused the World War II-era Fort Cronkhite in the distance, now houses National Park Service employees. But batteries atop the hillcrests -- which, incidentally, TJ ran up, down and around -- provide reminders of its time as an Army base during the early 20th century. The finish line was mere meters away from the former military barracks (bottom left), a few more meters away was the Pacific Ocean, in which TJ gave his legs an icy bath while he drank a frosty beverage (bottom right).  

 

In some ways, TJ ran two long distances that weekend, one as a runner in the race and one as a tourist with me. For certain, he completed the former -- third in his age category, I must say -- but I think we came up a little short in the second race. Most definitely, San Francisco deserves another loop, hopefully at a slower pace the next time. 

Serving traditional Hungarian fare such as goulash (158 Cong. Rec. E1453)

One of my summer jobs during college was working as a waitress at Chris's Cafe in Mansfield, which has been renovated into the Red Brick Diner. Neither of the restaurant names belie the family owners' specialities: goulash and hot pepper salad, both of which are still on the menu. As a waitress, I was not too fond of the goulash because, inevitably, it would spill off the plate, either burning my hand or staining my uniform. But after work, when I had a moment to eat, I thoroughly enjoyed the goulash, even if I did have to pay for it. (Incidentally, brother managers Jeff and Pete also required their servers to buy logo shirts as part of their uniforms; the replacing of them because of goulash stains might've been an excellent supplementary business, in fact.)

Then, while I was working in Israel, I took a long-weekend trip to Budapest, where I was able to try authentic goulash. As it turns out, Chris's recipe was right on the mark, except it lacked the dumplings that the meat and sauce are normally poured over. Ever since then, I wanted to see if I, too, could make a mean goulash, but I never had the proper Hungarian sweet paprika, which anyone will tell you is necessary for a true version of the stew. So when I found a can of the stuff in my local supermarket, I decided I could give goulash a go.

I shouldn't have been surprised that this delicious dish begins as every recipe should: with bacon. As I fried up the pot of pork goodness (top), I chopped peppers, garlic, onions, and potatoes (bottom left). In the end, the bacon beat me, as I ended up having to pull out the crispy bits while I finished cutting some of the ingredients (bottom right).

 

The recipe called for beef shank, but I ended up using London broil instead because it was on sale (left). I assume that shank, the leg of the animal, is the original cut because the meat takes a long time to tenderize, making it perfect for the long-term boiling of goulash. London broil comes from the flank, the hindquarters of the animal, but it has more muscle than connective tissue, making it prone to become tough, but I didn't have that problem, perhaps because I seared the meat (right) and the other ingredients acted as kind of a marinade.

When the meat was ready I added the most of the vegetables (no potatoes) and all of the spices, including the Hungarian sweet paprika (left). After those were thoroughly mixed (right), in went the liquids, mostly beef broth (mine was from bouillon cube) and some vinegar. Incidentally, I skipped the step of roasting and peeling the red peppers beforehand, a shortcut that I wouldn't recommend, as after all the pepper flesh boiled down, it left skins that, although not exactly tough, seemed out of place in the otherwise smooth stew.

I like my goulash thick, so for the first hour of simmering, I left the pot uncovered, so some of the liquid would evaporate (left). But I put the lid back on after I added the bacon and potatoes, so the tubers would get thoroughly cooked (right). Obviously, this stewing could be done in a crockpot, but the amount of the recipe didn't fit in mine, so I opted for the stove.

Considering this recipe includes potatoes, I doubt it was meant to be poured over dumplings, but I just couldn't forgo the spaetzle. The dough started with a simple batter: Beat the wet ingredients (eggs and milk) together (top left), then add the dry (flour, baking powder, and salt). I find that a whisk helps the mixture be less lumpy (top right) and is easier to use when the dough thickens (bottom).

The cooking of the noodles actually sounded a lot more complicated than it turned out to be. Instead of a colander, I used a fry basket that I bought in Mexico to separate the dough into pieces (top left), dropping them straight into the boiling water. The pieces almost immediately floated to the top (top right), but I did use a spatula to unstick some from the bottom. Once the pieces puffed up, I skimmed them out with a fine-mesh colander (bottom left). I went through the same process four times, but even so, after only about a half-hour, I had a bowl full of noodles (bottom right).

To keep them from globbing together, I chilled the noodles in the refrigerator while the stew finished cooking. It was perfect timing because when I poured piping-hot goulash over the lukewarm spaetzle, it created a perfect temperature for tasting. A dollop of sour cream, a sprinkle of parsley (sorry, but dried had to suffice as it was all I had in the house), and of course a napkin were the only necessary accompaniments.

Cliff art and cave paintings of Native Americans (147 Cong. Rec. H3363)

When I think of Americans in Mexico, I envision college students sloshing around with large cups on the dance floors of Señor Frog's and Papas & Beer. As it turns out, before there was a border, native Americans crossed into Mexico quite frequently, not just for spring break. Evidence of the extent of their migration can be found at El Vallecito, an archaeological zone located on the plateau between Tecate and Mexicali.

When you arrive at the site, at the end of a dirt road off highway 2, caretakers greet you to collect admission fees (left). The $35 peso price is economical indeed, but they get you with the $45 pesos extra to take videos or photos. However, the cost is more than worth it, especially if you opt to take a free tour with one of the helpful and knowledgeable caretakers, like we did. If you'd rather be in charge of your own visit, you can pocket a brochure and map, then follow the path marked with arrows instead (right).

Along the trail are stone markers with information about the native culture in general and its paintings in particular. Most of the placards are only in Spanish, but some of the more detailed ones by the main caves include the English and Kumiai language as well (left). The information is provided and the park maintained by the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia (right).

 

El Diablito, written in the title and drawn to the right of the marker above, is the most famous painting, mostly because of how it is illuminated each year during the winter solstice by sunlight coming through a crevice in its cave. I was more interested in El Hombre Enraizado, the rooted man (left); the reason for the roots is unclear, but our guide suggested that it represents how the culture believed humans were inextricably linked to their land and would return to it when they died, no matter where they were. The connection to nature was also obvious from the many depictions of mariposas, or butterflies (right), a common image in Kumiai crafts, possibly because of the prominence of the creatures in their region.

 

Remnants of the Kumiai (Kumeyaay) Indians are present outside the caves as well as inside. Near many of them are pits carved into the rock: deep morteres to grind acorns and more shallow metates to mill seeds (left). One seed the tribe might have used comes from an indigenous fruit that our guide picked and let us eat. Although it looked and tasted sour like a cherry, it had a large pit and orange flesh like a peach (right).

In our group were many youngsters, who were more than happy to play make-believe as they crawled through the caves (top left) and climbed over the crags that contained them (top right). Even for an adult, the hike is pleasurable even without the educational experience, considering the beautiful landscape, which
included the Sierra de Juárez in the distance (bottom).

The mountain range is considered the southern boundary of the Kumiai lands, which stretch as far north as Escondido in California. Indeed, there is a campground named after the indians in Mission Trails Regional Park near Santee, and the Viejas band of the tribe has a village near Alpine. I imagine that the band's casino is sometimes full of young people dancing and drinking in bars, but from now, my preference will be to think of these native Americans living it up in the caves of Mexico instead.

Dunes of the San Felipe area (63FR53596)

The motto of San Felipe, a fishing-cum-tourist town on the east side of the Baja California peninsula, is "No Bad Days." I wouldn't say we had "bad days" during our long weekend there, but some bits of bad luck did twist through our trip. For starters, before we even left, we changed our plans because we found out TJ would have to return to the Sea of Cortez coast for work the day after we returned to Tijuana. Worried that he might be asked to simply stay put in San Felipe, we played it safe in terms of our travel arrangements.

Instead of taking the dog and camping, we stayed at Aviles Bungalows (left), a hillside establishment bought long ago on a whim by visitors from the States (perhaps recognizing our similar nature, the owners tried to sell us some of their nearby property). The caretaker gave us the option of two rooms. We picked the one with the refrigerator and better view of the ocean (right).

 

A small beach is located about 500 meters from the bungalows, and from there, you can stroll on the sand for the 20-minute walk to downtown. Sometimes, though, the tide comes up so far that there's not enough shore to walk on, but still, you can trek through the oceanside dunes (left) before cutting up to the beach. At the main beach in front of the malecon, however, there is always some sand to be seen (right), even if much of it is taken up by carts filled with paletas and boats strapped to big bananas.

 

The tide, in fact, gave us our next bit of bad luck. At night, the water recedes so far that there are numerous sandbars. Swimming off one these patches, especially under the moonlight, is incredibly serene -- until the tide comes in and carries away all of your possessions, thereby ruining the items that are in your pockets, such as a camera and cellphone, with saltwater and sand. Such an occurrence will also render your photo card unreadable, leaving you with no record of the Ceviche Fest you attended right before your nightswimming.

Ah, but at least there's still the memories. We got into Ceviche Fest for $50 pesos, which included a free Coors Light and a dozen free samples of the citrus-cooked seafood spreads, although many of the stands were refusing handouts by the time we got there later in the day. It also included the opportunity to watch an interesting push-up competition for a bottle of tequila. So with all that, we certainly got our money's worth. TJ even bought some extras, oysters from Mariscos La Palma. They were so good that we decided to go to the stand's seafood shack later in the week (left). I got some shrimp tacos and a tostada campechano (a mix of seafood: shrimp, octopus, and scallops), and TJ went with a shrimp cocktail and octopus taco, which interestingly and deliciously enough consisted of one breaded tentacle and a Tupperware full of potential toppings (right).

 

Another of our culinary choices, Chuy's Place, came on recommendation from the owner of the bungalows. We weren't sure if the offer of free streamed clams was legit (top left), so we ordered chiles stuffed with shrimp for an appetizer (top right). We didn't follow a further suggestion from Mr. Aviles: to ask that 30 shrimps be stuffed in the normal shrimp caldo; instead, TJ had tequila shrimp, and I had the seafood sampler, which included fish, shrimp, and stuffed squid. On a Monday night, with most of the tourists already gone after the long weekend, we were out of luck when it came to dining options. We settled on Restaurant Bajamar, right on the malecon, and its snacks actually turned out to be a good late-night treat, with some perfectly cooked octopus and homemade cheese with a cilantro sauce (bottom).

 

When we weren't eating, we went exploring. We spent our first full day heading south toward Puertocitos and beyond. The weather wasn't ideal for hot springs, which was all right with me because Puertocitos looked pretty down on its heels anyway. We thought about paying $20 to enter a campo recreativo in the town so we could cool off in the ocean after a long drive; instead, we went back north a little and headed down a road that claimed to cost $5 a car. At the end of the road was no fee and nothing but a deserted beach for us to enjoy (top). We weren't so lucky with Valle de los Gigantes, which was closed without explanation, perhaps for the summer season. But once again, it was no biggie, considering you could see tall saguaro cacti all along the road; there's no reference for size, so trust me when I say one was about 12 feet high (bottom).

On the day we decided to just relax by the beach in town, the water was incredibly choppy. While we waited for it to calm, we headed to the north side of San Felipe. From the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, we got a good view of the lighthouse and some hidden beaches (left). When we found how to get down to the water, TJ was actually brave enough to navigate the surf (right); me, I guarded our remaining camera by taking photos.

We also changed our plan of driving back after some more bad luck. The road from San Felipe to Mexicali, which is usually the faster route, was being delayed by construction. Admittedly, it was lucky that we found this out after we got to San Felipe, so we could go back the way we came: crossing the peninsula to Ensenada before heading north to Tijuana. To be honest, it wasn't so bad seeing the lovely scenery of Parque Nacional Sierra de San Pedro Mártir to the south and Parque Nacional Constitución to the north twice during our trek.

And of course, it was quite lucky that we didn't have any car problems during the drive, as the route is definitively desolate. That didn't happen until we got home -- and until TJ had already headed back to San Felipe. As luck would have it, I managed to stall out while driving by myself in one of the most congested areas of Tijuana, the 5 y 10 crossing. I got the car started again and made it home safely, but not before I was the recipient of a lot of honks and one light tap on the bumper.

I haven't taken the car to the shop yet because I'm afraid it will stall again, and right now, I don't have a cellphone that works in Tijuana in order to call for help. Besides, breaking a camera and cellphone is enough for one month, so I don't want to push my luck with breaking the car, too. In other words, I don't plan to give myself a "bad day" until TJ is back to face it with me.