Traveling Dina - Explore. Dream. Discover.

It’s June in San Francisco.

For me, “June” conjures up the true rites of summer for a native East Coaster: Long, languid evenings spent without sweaters or shawls, dancing to jazz in an evening breeze on the plaza at Lincoln Center; hours-long meals passed in sidewalk cafes, drinking wine under long, rolled-out awnings of green; clams and mussells steaming in a garlic broth, eaten on a deck overlooking the ocean, the setting sun sparkling through flutes of beer; or driving the back roads of small-town NY, sunroof open and feet propped out the window, in search of the weekend’s best Kiwanis Club chicken barbeque; and eating that bbq, sitting on a blanket by Seneca Lake from hot sun ’till balmy twilight, watching tourist schooners and private sailboats ply the quiet water, friends and relatives strolling by to say hello…

It’s the season of bright sun and long days, of sundresses and sandals, of pure escapism and good cheer.

But Summer in San Francisco? Summer in San Francisco is none of that. It’s December’s foggy freeze blanketing the city from dawn till dusk, paying no attention to the visceral needs of a Jersey girl. It’s slacks and a T for the day, jeans and a fleece at night, skin pale and hairy underneath too many layers of clothing. The occasional spate of 70+ degree weather calls for congregating in Dolores Park with wine and cheese and friends and the Sunday Times, but the fog creeps in by six and the long “summer” evenings are better spent inside.

So as to avoid the risk of becoming even more stir-crazy in a city who defies nature with its relentlessly cloying blanket of gray, I decded to head “Upstate” as we’d say in NY, to Sonoma County, for some good ol’ back-to-nature summer fun. I packed the tent, sleeping bags, Thermarests, extra blankets, swimsuit, shorts & Tevas, picked up a friend, (handed over the keys!), and headed north.

Unfortunately, one thing about living in the San Francisco Bay Area that is not that different from East Coast city living is that EVERYONE wants to get away for the weekend. Campsites at popular parks book up months in advance, especially those within an “easy” drive to the city. While all of the parks with challenging mountain hikes were already booked up, luckily Lake Sonoma, a man-made resevoir managed by the US Army Corps of Engineers, has a “first-come, first-served” campground, and our plan was to head straight there.

We arrived in time to have our pick of spots, and chose one at the top of a small incline, with views of the lake below down behind the trees and golden, grassy hills. It also featured a small slope between the tent and ridgeline that provided a modicum of privacy from the nearby sites, should we fancy a midnight blanket-sit under the stars. We set up camp, headed into town for iced coffees and essential camping provisions — sausages, sausages, more sausages, chips, fig newtons, and beer (Miller High Life!) — came back to camp, put the cooler in what shade we could find, and set off for the lake a short but steep hike away.

The sun beat down warmly, probably over 80 degrees — finally! — and the lake sparkled a deep green-gray-blue below. The flooded valley licked steep hillsides, the lake forming inlets and “fingers” of water poking into the secondary valleys between the hills. We could see the boat-in tentsites on the opposite shores, and the sounds of power boats and jet skis echoed up the hills. It was a picture-perfect postcard of lakeside summertime family fun, and we were headed right for it!

Or… so we thought. Instead of leaving camp again to drive to a trailhead, we bushwhacked a small distance from our site to an obvious trail. It seemed natural that all trails should lead down, down, down to the lake, and we headed out with easy expectations of a quick, cool trip to our dip. But after about 10 minutes we found ourselves… back out at the road! We checked the map, regrouped, back-tracked, and took the opposite fork, a trail labeled “shortcut” that for sure must’ve led downhill.

It was a beautiful walk on a narrow path cutting across the hillside through strawlike, golden grass, with the lake always beckoning to our right. However, our lack of progress down the hill became almost comical. Our xeroxed “trail map” was essentially useless. I became convinced we were going to walk around the entire lake — not the wisest choice of endevours, as the branch of the lake we were skirting was 9 miles long!

We continued to giggle (OK, maybe I giggled) and bumble along without any real noticable change in elevation until we noticed a small peninsula jutting off into the lake. We walked out on it, and finally stumbled down a steep, unmarked rocky path to the shore. We had our own private bit of shoreline, and after much hesitation on account of fear of cold water (me) and submerged objects (my friend), we summoned our courage and sank into the cool, alkaline water.

It’s been almost a year since I’ve been really swimming — New Zealand’s head-to-toe in a 10mm thick wetsuit experiences not withstanding — and I just bobbed along, relishing that feeling of almost-weightlessness, the slippery feel of the chalky water on my skin, listening to the echoes of my breath as I floated and looked up at the sky. We played around splash-style for a while (always a necessity, no?), then climbed out and sat on the crumbling shoreline to dry.

The walk home was remarkably quick compared to our casual bungling down to the lake, thanks in part to a quicker pace, part to knowing the way, and part to the strange psychology of the passage of time. We lit the coals, cooked our sausages, drank our beer, and passed a lovely, typical camping evening under the stars.

The perfect antidote to Foggy City living!

The rest of the day was almost comically typical.  I had a SuperShuttle pick me up at the Fraureishaus so I didn’t have to woalk with my backpack back to the Square.  The shuttle was actually early.  Whoa.

It took me a while to find the proper counter in the airport, and then waited ona short but painfully slow line to check in.  Air New Zealand only allows 17K (I think) for carry-on luggage, so I had to do some creative rearranging, including putting on all of my sweaters in order for my bag to ‘make weight.’  I’ve had my checked luggage lost (and luckily found, although once after my trip had ended) three times now, so now I *HATE* checking luggage.  I’m willing to do anything — ANYTHING! — not to.  (OK, almost anything…)

When we landed in Auckland, I noticed that the boarding time printed on my onward ticket to SF was… NOW.  Reaction?  “Oh, Shit!” The guy sitting next to me was also catching the same flight, and luckily he helped me navigate the small but sprawling airport to the next terminal — he’d done the walk several times before, but I doubt I would’ve found it without him, as we were supposed to “follow the blue line” which faded, disappeared, and reappeared at various intervals.

By the time I had to go through security (again!) I was nervous, rushed, and sweaty.  Finally, I made it onto the cabin and was lucky enough to get some of the last storage space for my backpack.

As I walked towad my seat, however, I noticed two children in what appeared to be the seats next to mine, for the second “Oh, shit!” moment of the day.  The blonde mom was across the aisle, and my window seat was empty.  She stood as I approached, and I knew what was next.

As a frequent single traveler, i am asked to give up my seat ALL THE TIME so parents can sit next to their kids.  i once gave up my window seat and suffered through 6 hours in the middle so a dad could sit with his 12-year-old child (he neglected to mention her age when he asked me to switch) who clearly hated him.  Nice.

This time, we had 13 hours of flying time, I paid a HUGE amount of money for the ticket.  There was NO WAY I was giving up my window seat.  I explained this as politely as I could — I’m usually a bit of a pushover, and asserting myself in this situation was actually pretty hard.  I felt bad, and offered to ask around for someone else who might be willing to take her aisle seat and give me their window, but she insisted I not do that — “I don’t want to make any more trouble.”  OK, trouble for me, but no one else?

She commented several times on being “SHOCKED” that I wouldn’t switch, and made several comments to the kids that were clearly designed to get me to want to take the aisle seat.  “Oh, you’ll have to keep your feet out of the lady’s lap!”  “Son, will you be able to sleep with daughter in your lap?”  “Now, try to be quiet…” etc.  Why she couldn’t take the middle seat to be next to younger daughter, and have video-game-playing son take the aisle seat was a bit of a mystery to me.

Interestingly, after I put my ipod on and refused to fall for any of her BS, that is exactly what she did.  So now I had to spend 13 hours next to someone who hated me.  Great.  But, once she got over being “shocked” and accepted her middle-seat fate, she was actually quite nice.  The 7 or 8-year-old son was fine across the aisle, and the daughter cuddled next to her.  We chatted breifly before I put my headphones back on, and the bad air seemed relatively clear.  Phew!

Air NZ has comfy seats and great entertainment — hundreds of choices of TV, movies, comedy, music, etc — although the user interface is a bit klugey.  I had my first shepard’s pie ever, which was actually quite delicious (and airline food no less!)  By hour #3 or 4, thogh, I was still bored, despite the great selection of video entertainment, cheesy magazines, and music, and it was hard to sleep.   Periodically there was bad turbulance, which had me once again praying, writing goodbye notes in my journal, and trying to calmly breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…  I hate turbulance!

Finally some sleep, a good breakfast, a long wait for the small bag I’d reluctantly checked (I was SURE it was lost, but it was just one of the last pieces out), a slow ride on the SuperShuttle, and, finally, that shell-shocked feeling of being back “home.”

A fabulous trip.

It went much too quickly.