Traveling Dina - Explore. Dream. Discover.

1. You do tell everyone about PillowFight Club.
2. You do tell everyone about PillowFight Club.
3. Nothing in your pillow but a pillow.
4. Don’t hit anyone without a pillow.
5. Don’t hit anyone who is operating a camera — or who starts to whine.
   
6. The PillowFight starts at the designated time - No earlier.
7. PillowFights will go on until they’re done.

Apparently, Valentine’s Day is a stressful holiday for both the single & the coupled off alike. So, rather than risk spending the evening forlornly alone with a Costco chicken and 16 episodes of “House” or on a blind date with some guy off the Internet who lied about his employment status and looks nothing like his picture, I crossed my fingers and scanned around for something better to do on this supposed most romantic night of the year. So when a posting for the “Anti-Valentine’s Day Pillow Fight” came across my radar, I quickly shot out an email to my closest pals in order to gague interest. It was a resounding “Hell, yeah!”

Based on the principles of the “Flash Mob”, the Pillow Fight is exactly what you might think a pillow fight advertised on the Internet would be: three hundred strangers congregating on a plaza in downtown San Francisco armed with goose-down, feathers, and foam, all in order to clobber their neighbors in good-natured fun.

My buddies & I met up at a BART station downtown and walked, pillows in hand, the ten minutes or so toward the plaza on the Embarcadero where the fight was to be held. People either cheered us on and raised their pillows in solidarity as they passed, glanced quizzically and quickly turned away, or asked something along the lines of “Hey, what’s the deal with all the pillows?” (When we finally left the fight, this was a refrain we heard throughout the night as we wandered around the city with our pillows in tow…)

People were generally good about waiting to start their attacks until the Ferry Building clock chimed 6pm, with only a few teasing swats here and there, but once that clock rang, all hell broke loose. We started out on the outskirts of the melee, just casually striking each other rather than strangers, but soon the pillow fighting began in earnest.

After the fourth or fifth time getting smacked in the head by strangers’ deceptively heavy pillows, I called a personal cease-fire and took myself out of the direct line of attack. Fine, call me a wimp. That I can take.

Even from the sidelines, this pillow fight was intense. People were giggling, shouting, flinging their pillows randomly, indiscriminantly, and with full force. Periodically, someone’s pillow would explode, spewing feathers high into the air like snow. The crowd would shout and cheer with abandon.

My friends decided that we couldn’t legitimately “blog” about Pillow Fight Club unless we had been in the very thick of it. So we gave our backpacks and purses to another friend who had already retired her pillow, bowed our heads and joined the raging frackus.

I lasted approximately ten seconds. I don’t know if it was a product of being only five feet tall or that the crowd was growing overly aggressive, but my poor noggin kept getting the brunt of the blows. It was enough for me. “I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I muttered in my best Michael Jackson impersonation and skulked away to the sidelines.

Emily, Jess, Josh and Claire didn’t last much longer, either. We packed up our stuff, took a few more pics, cheered on the crowd, and headed out for a romatic dinner for five. Jess had heard of an authentic Chinese restaurant with a good reputaion creatively located in Chinatown, and we decided it would be perfect for the night.

After a lenghty discussion on whether we should splurge on the braised frogs, we settled on crispy salt-and-pepper squids and salt fish with noodles. (”You know the salt fish?” our waitress asked with a hint of incredulousness. “It is fish. And salt. Salt fish.”) The hanging fried fowl and additional random small fauna (”Is that a peking game hen?”) were tempting, adding to the “authentic” feel of the place. The meal was complimented by hot sauce and jalepenos in gravy, which I politely declined.

It was a delicious meal, but it was also Valentine’s Day — the night would not be complete without something sweet! We headed to Gelateria Naia in nearby North Beach, a neighborhood characterized by Italian eateries, strip clubs, and tourist attractions. (!?!?)

Not too surprisingly, in honor of the season Gelateria Naia was showcasing chocolate, with 22 different varieties of chocolate-flavored gelato. The gelato had names like Donatello, Stracciatella, Tartufo and Bacio to compliment the Chocolate Coconut, Dark Chocolate, and Chocolate Orange.

My friends took samples of as many different chocolates as they could before settling on one or two flavors lavishly presented in colorful dishes. Because I am a freak of nature and don’t like chocolate, I tried a few of their frutier offerings and decided, at last, to choose nothing. My friends looked up warily from their gelatos, glanced knowingly at each other, and decided that I am officially an alien. Luckily, they deemed me friendly and allowed me to stay.

All in all, a great, eventful Wednesday.

After gorging on oysters a few weeks ago, Emily and I figured the rest of the day would involve a lot of rest and recuperation from the bivalve overdose. We bid farewell to our Finnish friend Sami and decided to walk off a little of the fullness.

Eventually we found ourselves in the cute and trendy Hayes Valley neighborhood. As we walked, we came upon what turned out to be a rather clever — and effective — marketing ploy: a typical chalkboard advertising sign in front of a small, easily overlooked cafe. “The Best Latte in San Francisico!” it proclaimed in clear white letters and a crisp hand. “Ask Us Why!” We looked at each other, eyebrows raised, and silently turned towards the cafe to scope out the circumstances of this supposed best latte in town.

“Latte” is one of my most favorite words in the English language. (If indeed it is even English!) Equal parts pretentiousness and hipster, there’s something that just feels more sophisticated about saying “soy latte” than “coffee regular.” Now, those who know me well are aware that there’s nothing I like better than a nice, full-fat, triple-shot iced latte in a giant glass (recall our Starbucks adventures in Turkey and Las Vegas), so how could I turn down the opportunity to sample this tiny joint’s supposedly top-notch java?

We walked in, shook off the dampness, and looked around. The narrow cafe consisted of a long bar, six barstools, and not much else. A youthful looking, attractive, slender, and stereotypically gay young man in fashionable jeans, a tight t-shirt and a mop of curls was behind the counter, lazily chopping celery. He greeted us and asked how he could help.

“What makes your latte the best latte in San Francisco?” quizzed Emily, ever the journalist.

“Well, you’d just have to see,” he replied.

Perhaps we let him off easy, but that’s all it took. We chose a couple of barstools, settled in, and ordered 2 hot lattes.

As he made our drinks, another, older cafe worker — perhaps the owner? — came in and began puttering around behind the counter, bantering good-naturedly with the younger barrista. Emily and I joined in the fun, and suddenly we were all in a very intent, loud and raucous discussion about the Spice Girls. I already loved my latte and I hadn’t even tried it yet.

I left the conversation for a moment to pick up a call on my cellphone. As I chatted briefly with my friend Matty, our lattes were placed on the counter — steaming, caramel-colored, frothy brews in ice-cream soda glasses. The barrista quietly asked Emily a question, and pulled out something that contained what looked vaguely like chocolate syrup. He held it over my drink and began deftly and smoothly pouring a thin line of syrup.

“OMG, Matty, I have to go. This dude is writing my name on my latte!”

“Wha—?” =click=

It was by far the coolest beverage I’d ever seen. Emily got a lovely flower-like sunburst design on hers. Our drinks were so pretty we felt bad destroying them. But we slowly sucked them down, enjoying the hint of chocolate and warm milky taste, the cute surroundings and clever comversation with charming employees. When it comes to frothy coffee beverages, I’ve learned that presentation counts for a lot. Our tiny, nameless Hayes Valley cafe was right — I’m pretty sure that they do indeed have the Best Latte in San Francisco.

This Friday night was the benefit fundraiser for my friend Donna, who is in a coma in SF General Hospital. The Burning Man community, through which I met Donna, has really come together, both in New York (where Donna is from) and San Francisco to try to help raise money for Donna and her family. There have been auctions, movie nights, and other creative fundraisers, including the party we went to last night.

Held at a bar called Shine, which was just a short bus ride away, the theme was “Double the Fun”, and people were encouraged to come dressed as “twins.” Never one to shy away from the opportunity to dress up, J. and I brainstormed our clothing options and came up with a sexy matching stripey combo.

We arrived a bit on the early side, and were able to claim a large booth/sofa area for ourselves and our other friends who showed up about the same time that we did. Matty was fine chilling sitting down, so he watched our purses for us while J. and I headed over to the dance floor. The music was great, and the crowd was really into it. I didn’t recognize any of the DJ’s or the songs per se, but the genre of electronic music they were playing, “breakbeats”, is my favorite. We got our pulses up and our hearts beating fast, jumping around like little striped maniacs on the dance floor.

We danced through last call, and continued dancing up until they turned the lights on and ushered everybody out. We grabbed a cab and headed back to the Mission District, where I live, for the ultimate in late-night after-party grub: The Burrito.

We ended up at Taqueria Cancun, which is up there as having one of the top 2 burritos I’ve eaten since I moved here.

The pinto beans were soft and flavorful, the marinated pork tender, the small dollop of sour cream mixed throughout the burrito the perfect amount, adding tang without overpowering the taste. But what put it over the top was the cilantro, which may have been part of the salsa or perhaps added as an ingredient of its own, but the spice of the fresh green made the burrito.

Aside from the amazing food, at 3am, the place was jumping. The line stretched all the way to the bathrooms, and almost every seat was taken by “hipsters” (J’s term) getting some food after the bar or the party, not quite ready to go home. The jukebox was loud, the people were loud, the decorations were loud… It was the perfect place to be after dancing all night.

I love my neighborhood!

Several weekends ago, Emily and I decided to expand upon our very successful first oyster expedition and venture out to San Francisco’s famous Swan Oyster Depot. Not knowing what to expect, and recalling our swanky first oyster outing at the Hog Island Oyster Co. down at the ferry building, where wealthy tourists come to shop and local professionals come to have fancy happy hour cocktails or dine before hopping a boat home to the suburbs, I offered to bring a bottle of Chablis. Emily hesitated. “I don’t think it’s that kind of place…”

The Swan Oyster Depot is famous not only for its oysters but also for its other seafood — clams on the half-shell, Boston-style chowder, cracked crab and all sorts of smoked fish — and its unique ambiance. Less a restaurant and more a seafood bar in the style of old railroad-car diners, patrons pony up to the counter on round vinyl barstools while those on the waiting line sip cold frothy beers from pint glasses, leaning up against the wall behind the diners and queueing all the way out the door. Decidedly not Chablis territory.

Was it worth the 45-minute wait? Oh yes, definitely. Not only were we about to be confronted with a variety of shellfish heretofore unimagined to our inexperienced palates, we were lucky enough to have Jimmy as our server. Wearing a dirty white apron, rolled-up shirt sleeves, and sporting an attitude that was part Brooklyn and part gruff-but-friendly New England, Jimmy wanted to know what we’d like to order.

“Um… oysters?” Emily, Sami (our random friend from Finland), and I replied.

Jimmy sighed, but smiled. “Yeah. We have twelve different kinds of oysters.”

Clearly, Jimmy had seen the look on our faces before. Without a hint of fatigue, he continued, “What do you like? Plump? Chewey? Savory? Briny? Large, small? Local?” He rattled off the names of, well, a dozen different locales, which is how oysters are named. This guy knew his oysters.

We decided to start with a selection of large, plump oysters considered “savory” or extra rich in flavor. They were out of this world delicious, with a smooth texture, robust flavor and tangy liquor. I found them so delightful that I preferred to eat them plain or with a simple bit of fresh-squeezed lemon over the horseradish, cocktail, and other dressings available.

Jimmy then kept bringing over plates of oysters of differing varieties, so we could compare taste, texture, liquor, size, brininess and other qualities to determine each of our favorites. Sami, our friend visiting the US from Finland, seemed to be in a bit of wonderment, proclaiming, “We don’t ahve anything like this in Finland!” (He did, however, expand upon the many ways the Finns prepare herring…) In the end, we all preferred different kinds of oysters — I liked the meaty, full-flavored Skookum Bays and the shockingly large Blue Points while Sami and Emily both preferred the lighter, smaller, more delicate and salty local oysters. We left stuffed and satisfied. Swan Oyster Depot is definitely an excursion to be repeated!

Swan Oyster Depot Oysters. Notice that the three large but thin oysters on the right are a different type of oyster than the more delicate yet plump oysters with the ridged shells on the left. They really do taste different!