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!

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!

I’m sure I’m completely wrong in my analogy, but it feels like the way NYC has the “outer boroughs” meaning the far-reaches of Queens and the Bronx and Staten Island, and the “‘burbs” like NJ, Long Island, and Connecticut, San Francisco has the various parts of the “Bay Area” and additional counties. The South Bay is San Jose, San Matteo and other towns; in the East Bay there is Oakland and Berkeley; and you can always venture far to Marin, Sonoma, or Monterrey Counties if you’re up for an adventure.

This weekend, J. and I took my extrememely dirty Honda (for the life of me I cannot find a car wash!) to the East Bay — Berkeley, to be specific — for a 1980’s theme party. Those who know me well know I absolutely cannot turn down an 80’s party. I even have several pieces of authentic 1980’s clothing which have survived these *ahem* years and are still hanging in my closet today. However, the majority of them were deemed not “80’s” enough, and so before heading out, J. and I hit some of the Mission District thrift stores.

J. found a perfectly cheesy 80’s prom dress, and after some dress-up in my room, we decided that yes, I could wear my original prom dress that I wore with Adam in 19*cough**cough*. I decorated it with some buttons of bands who are my favorite to this day — The Smiths, The Cure, Depeche Mode, New Order — and teased up my hair (not nearly as high as I used to get it in 19*grumble**grumble* - how in the world did I acheive such heights??? I vaguely remember something about AquaNet and a hair dryer…), gothed up my makeup and put on very large, very lopsided earrings.

And while I still find it impressive that I can actually fit into my prom dress from, well, a long time ago, I was a little less successful in trying to act like the 80’s were a foreign decade. I look young, but the “Ohhhh, in my day…” stories are NOT going to keep the facade going. Basically, I love the 80’s so much, I think I blew my cover. It’s pretty obvious now that I’m not 26 like everybody else… At least I didn’t sing all the words to “West End Girls”, karaoke style. (Someday, someday!)
~~

J.’s friend doing a very impressive Michael Jackson (from “Beat It”) impression:

J. and me in our tricked-out prom dresses. Notice the hand-knit legwarmers! (I knew those would come in handy someday!!!)

Today was like a spring day, only it’s January. Jeans, t-shirt, and a light cardigan for when we found ourselves in the shade. Lots of walking and sunshine. Emily came over, and we walked around the park, stopping for a little while to sit down, soak up some rays and gossip. We ambled over to a neat ‘zine-store where she picked up an “anarchist planner” (don’t ask) and stopped into ImagiKnit for some yarn porn (we both managed to refrain from buying any yarn as we both have stashes that could provide sweaters for all the children of a small island nation. If they, you know, needed sweaters.) We did some shopping at the natural foods co-op (you can’t get much more California than soy yogurt), and after she left I took myself and the New York Times magazine section out to We Be Sushi. All-in-all, a very chill, relaxing, lazy Sunday.

~~~

The “park” is Dolores Park (which has it’s own Wikipedia entry, click on the link), a mere 2 blocks away from my house. It’s a favorite of dog-owners, and there are dogs of all shapes and sizes chasing tennis balls (and each other) pretty much everywhere. There’s lots of grassy areas for picknicking, tennis courts on the side, a ball field, and even (really gross) bathrooms. On the weekends, more often than not there is some sort of music, and today there was a small marching-style band playing drums and horns for a crowd of people dressed up in burning man-esque style “formal” wear — crazy top-hats and corduroy tails, flouncy prom dresses of all styles. It was great fun to watch; wish we’d been invited!

The view from Dolores Park:

Dina and Emily in Dolores Park:

In October, I went to Las Vegas with a friend and met up with my former housemate from Ithaca, who is now a teacher in New Mexico. A. prides herself on being trendy and fashionable, following all the high-quality brand names and researching them online because there’s not much else to do in Gallup.

As J., A. and I started to get dolled up for our first night on the town, A. very gently made it clear: my inexpensive, chain-store, belted and slightly baggy jeans were not doing justice to my slender figure. And on top of all that, they were low-brow. We had a mission: Operation Cute Jeans.

Two department stores, several hours, and what felt like hundreds of pairs of jeans later, I left Las Vegas with an important, life-changing piece of paper: a list of brand-names, cuts, styles, washes (the ‘color’) and sizes of premium denim, plus the URL’s to two denim forums where women sell thier “gently used” $250 jeans for sometimes less than half the original price.

After our excursion, my head was swimming with information; I could barely keep it all straight. I marvel at A.’s amazing capacity for storage and retrieval of the obscure details of denim, including how different cuts actually fit. After I lost my valuable slip of paper, she was still able to rattle off the exact pairs I’d liked best, in what sounds like a bizarre code: COH Ingrid Pacifics, 25. 7FAM Sigs 25. R&R Costello Ephedrine in 24. I stored the info away in my e-mail box and began looking online to start my collection.

Three months after our Vegas department store excursions, A. still has a photographic memory and a wardrobe to die for, while I’ve gained the valuable skill of being able to recognize the back pocket insignias of several of the most important brands of premium denim: Citizens of Humanity (COH)! Seven for All Mankind (7FAM)! True Religion (TR)! Rock & Republic (R&R)! Joe’s Jeans (Joe’s)!

And recently, within just a matter of days, I had the opportunity to stare at the rear ends of the citizens of two of our country’s best and most glamourous cities and ask myself a question: Which city is trendier? San Francisco, or New York?

AND the result? I hate to disappoint my bretheren in the Greatest City in the World, the Big Apple, the Pulse of the Empire State, the (supposedly) always fashionable NYC, but… San Francisco is, at least when it comes to their tushies, trendier than New York. The heels, the slim-fit jeans, the cinched and flared coats… We could argue it’s the climate, but with global warming, temperatures have flip-flopped and New Yorkers are bar-be-queing while Californians are hitting the slopes.

Whatever the reason, my informal observations are thus: San Franciscans wear a LOT more premium denim than New Yorkers. And when New Yorkers wear it, they stick to “Sevens” (7FAM), one of the most premium but most well-known brands, while San Franciscans wear it all. And while I have now joined the ranks of those trendy San Franciscans, I also have the premium denim curse: doomed to check out the bouncing butts of strangers everywhere, every time I walk down the street.

So I had a pretty good weekend, quite busy, which is always nice. Friday was Kris’s b-day (see previous post) which was a fun time of Mexican food and Margaritas. [As an interesting aside, this blog is getting a lot of hits from people who search for “shaved head”. Suddenly, I am popular!]

Saturday was also busy — I slept late (as those in the know understand I am wont to do) then headed out to meet up with Dana. We had lattes and lunch and chatted for a couple of hours. Then, Christopher showed up with my desk from Santa Cruz — he lives down that way, but his girlfriend is in the Bay Area, so he offered to get it for me; I owe them lunch at some point, it was really nice of him to get it for me.

Afterward, I finished up some boring work and then got ready to go out to an early cocktail party my roommate was having with her friends. It was in the Mount Davidson area, which is up on a hiiigh hill overlooking the south of the city. Her friend’s house was unbelievably nice. A modern, box-shape style with an entire wall of windows in the living room overlooking the city. Here is a camera-phone picture of the view out her window; apparently the brighter row of lights is Ocean Avenue. Yes, I know it’s an awful picture, but you get the idea:

The cocktail party was nice; I chatted with a few of my roomie’s friends who I’d met before, which was fun. The food was great — roasted red peppers and portobello mushrooms as well as stuffed mushrooms and grape leaves were my favorite of the offerings. I stuck to one small glass of wine, since I was driving, and headed off to Krystal’s for hockey.

The hockey game was great — Sharks vs. Anaheim — and an exciting game, too, where we kept catching up from behind. Our final shot was an amazing goal, with my favorite player, Jonathan Cheechoo, looking very exuberant. Twas a very exciting game. It was also fun to watch with more than just Nicole and Krystal — K’s roommates cooked sausages and watched with us. The dynamic was different than when it’s just us girls, but when they ran out to get some more firewood, we quickly reverted to rating our favorite players on looks and not long after that the conversation degenerated into talking bras. Ahhh, girls watching hockey…

The exciting thing about Saturday night was that after hockey, I had a bunch of things to choose from to do. Since Santacon last week left me a bit weary of the party-like-a-rock-star scene, I decided on a mellower night, and headed over to a small get-together in Berkeley to hang out with people I met a few weeks ago with J. It was a nice, chill evening and definitely what I was in the mood for.

It was also nice to crank up the music and drive somewhere. It felt vaguely like driving out to Jersey from NYC, which amused me for no real good reason except that it did. My next trip anywhere will hopefully have the TomTom GPS Navigation system (with John Cleese add-on, although there are a variety of accents to choose from…) so I can be told in a sexy British accent exactly where to turn and not have to rely on my shoddy, copied-down Google maps directions.

Sunday was… well, Sunday. I got up late, late, late, and when I finally pulled myself together it was around 2. I called a few people, decided to skip out on shopping with Dana, and headed to the Park for some leftover burrito (better than it sounds) and the Sunday Times. Eventually I got a manicure, talked some more on the phone, hung with the roommie and her friend, sorted through and got rid of an enormous box of papers and unpacked miscellaneous items, crawled into bed, surfed the net, read more paper, and went to sleep.

Heading back to the East Coast in just a few days, for lots of family Holiday time. I’m a little bummed to be leaving just as my social life in SF is becoming more satisfying, but at the same time, it will be fun to be home and see everyone.

And, what you’ve been waiting for, the requisite what’s-on-D’s-nails picture. “Wicked”, by Esse.

So last night was my friend (by way of Ashley) Kris’s birthday. They decided to have dinner at a great Mexican place way out in the Richmond, an area of the City between the north side of Golden Gate Park and the Presidio. Basically: really far away from me.

Since Mexican dinners usually involve copious amounts of Margaritas, I decided not to drive. I tried to take the 33 bus, which 511.org assured me would come at 6:35, and every 20 minutes thereafter. I left the house at 6:25, and got on the phone to chat with mom for 10 minutes. Make that 20 minutes. 30. 40. The bus simply did not come. WTF??? I was getting grumpier and grumpier and more and more frustrated. The public transit in this city is (excuse my French) for shit.

So, I headed a few blocks away for the 22. I saw it pull up, and ran as fast as I could, made it across the street, went up to the bus and… the driver would not open his doors. “Take the next bus,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for 50 minutes! Please let me on the bus!” He took off, and I just lost it. I kicked the fence a bunch of times, and a nice but smelly transient-sort came over and tried to make me feel better. The next bus actually came much sooner than the supposed every-20-minutes (thank God) and I settled in for another nauseating MUNI ride across the city.

Ashley had mentioned that Kris shaved her head recently, so I set out to finishing up a crochet beanie for her (a girl with a shaved head can’t have too many beanies.) It turned out really well, and Kris was thrilled with it. Here we are for a laughing birthday kiss on the cheek and Kris in her new beanie.

We dressed up for the crazy Santa pub crawl again this year.

Here’s a teaser pic of Matty, his buddy and me at Jess’s apartment before the event began:

For some reason, SantaMatty always makes that face in pictures. You can also clearly see that Santa D is really quite attached to her phone…

More pics to come!