Take me out to the ball game

I’ve been to the ball game. I’ve been out with the crowds. I had the peanuts (but no cracker jack) and I don’t care if I never get back.

One of my youngest brother’s best friends is working in San Francisco. Since he’s leaving and moving to Hong Kong in July, he wanted to catch a baseball game before he left. Since I was in town, he asked if I’d like to see a baseball game. (But, of course!) He managed to get tickets from a vendor at work, and managed to score an extra one for me.

He’s not a fan and the tickets were free, so he didn’t know what game we were going to catch (he thought it would be in Oakland) but turns out we caught the Giants on homeground at AT&T Park. AT&T Park is really nice, by the way. Then at the game, it would have been cool if one of us knew what was happening. We both know the rough idea of the game — don’t strike out, make as many home runs as possible in nine innings — but not the finer rules. His colleague did explain some of them, but a lot of it was done in whispers to the ears of his girlfriend.

Still, my first ever baseball game. Yay. Ever since Peanuts, I wanted to play baseball (my school had a very limited sports programme, we didn’t have softball, we didn’t have gymnastics, we didn’t even have tennis when I was there. It was a small school). Ever since Rerun sang the anthem song on a cartoon, I learnt the words. Ever since last year…

For me, this was one of my “50 Things To Do Before You Die” milestones. Baseball game complete with hot dog, garlic fries (the ones at AT&T Park are amazing) and hot chocolate (it was a cold day), singing the baseball song with the crowd, the seventh inning stretch — check.

Anyway, the Giants sucked. Padres won 5-1.

Escape to Alcatraz

Someone up there is watching over me. Early last week, I decided during breakfast to go check out Alcatraz as someone mentioned it was interesting and worth a visit. Walking towards Market, I’m on Powell when I see the F-Line Streetcar in the distance. Suddenly it’s “Run, Tourist! Run!”

Let me say now that as unglam as it is, I prefer to run than wait for the bus. I suspect it stems from when I was in school and Bus 61 takes 45 minutes, or eternity, whichever comes first, to arrive. So now, whether I’m in flip-flops or stilettos, I really run. Dash. Sprint. Here in San Francisco, there’s even more incentive seeing that I already spent 40 minutes one cold, windy evening waiting for Bus 71 to Haight and Ashbury. Run, indeed.

Anyway, I managed to catch that streetcar to Pier 33 and joined the line at the ticket window. However, when it came to my turn, the lady said that she just sold the last tickets to today’s tours to the couple in front of me and that I would have to buy tickets for tomorrow. But I couldn’t make it tomorrow. Argh! I tried reasoning with her to squeeze one more coz it’s just me, but to no avail. Then just before I walked away, she looked at her monitor and said: “Wait, actually if you’re just one ticket, I could do that. I do have one left.”

Woohoo! Just like that. It was close but I made it to Alcatraz. Just barely. (This reminds me of my White House Tour story that involved a bunch of us underestimating the size of DC, lots of running, and White House guards holding the gate while shouting at us to hurry.)

If that kid at breakfast didn’t mention Alcatraz. If I hadn’t run. If I hadn’t gotten that last ticket. My guardian angel was really awake that morning. (Sure, I could go back and book tickets online for another day, but I would have wasted half the morning. Hee.)

So.

Alcatraz, also known by its pop-culture name, The Rock, is a small island located in the middle of San Francisco Bay. Its history began when the first lighthouse on the west coast was built there (today it’s the oldest operating lighthouse on the west coast). A military fort was built right after the Gold Rush of 1849, and it was later converted into a military prison before it became a federal prison.

The federal prison closed in 1963 and the buildings abandoned until 1976 when the island received landmarking designations in 1976 and 1986. Today, the island is operated by the National Park Service as part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area.

There’s more about the history of the Alcatraz, such as how it was, while still a military fort, used to imprison deserters and Confederate sympathisers on the west coast during the American Civil War. And that as the army switched the focus of Alcatraz from coastal defense to detention, some of those incarcerated there included Hopi Native American men who refused to let their children learn English.

But let’s get to the part we all want to know about. The infamous inmates and the escape attempts.

In its 29 years of operation, there were 14 escape attempts. All failed, save for two. However, while the participants in the 1937 and 1962 attempts disappeared without trace, experts feel they were probably unsuccessful and probably drowned.

The swim across the bay to San Francisco is 1.5 miles, but many escapees fail to take into consideration the frigid temperatures of the waters. (That said, the annual Escape From Alcatraz Triathlon will take place in June)

Of course, there are those who think they made it. And, of course, there would be sightings…

The Clint Eastwood movie, Escape From Alcatraz, is based on the 1962 escape. However, the real mastermind of that escape was a fellow inmate that didn’t take part. Naturally, they can’t say that in the film and make Clint look like he didn’t conceive the whole thing from start to end. Also, there are no common shower rooms where Navy Seals can get gunned down, nor are there tunnels in which Nicholas Cage and Sean Connery and friends can crawl through, as seen in the movie The Rock.

Now, for the inmates. There are a few mentioned, but the most famous are:

Robert Stroud, the Birdman of Alcatraz, was transferred to Leavenworth to Alcatraz. Contrary to urban and movie legend, he never kept birds at Alcatraz, only at Leavenworth where, believe it or not, his ornithological activities led him actually writing books and made important contributions to avian pathology.

Al Capone was transferred from Atlanta to Alcatraz. The former had been a tough federal prison but Capone still managed to wrangle special privileges. The isolation of Alcatraz succeeded in eroding Capone’s influence and his empire gradually withered. In fact, he was so unpopular with his fellow inmates he suffered continuous harassment and attempts on his life throughout his prison sentence. In the end, his health declined due to syphilis which he contracted as a youth, most noticeably with the onset of dementia. He was transferred out of Alcatraz then released in 1939, and died after suffering a stroke in 1947.

The complementary Audio Tour of the prison is engaging and informative. What’s refreshing about it is that the narration is given by former guards and inmates. Some of them aren’t even alive any more as the recordings were done over 20 years ago.

www.nps.gov/alcatraz

The Golden Gate Bridge on two wheels

Memorial Day started overcast. I wanted to bike the bridge but had to check the weather in the morning to see if I ought to take a raincheck.

The day’s forecast was cloudy with partial sun. I’ve seen this here. The day begins grey then the sun pushes through the clouds in the afternoons. The rest of the week’s forecast was no help as it seemed like more of the same. (And you never know with these things when you’re travelling. Sometimes the weather improves. Sometimes it gets worse. C’est la vie.)

Got my bike from Blazing Saddles, went down Fisherman’s Wharf, past the Aquatic Park, up the hill to Fort Mason. Because the morning was blustery, I had two tees, a light hoodie and my raincoat/windbreaker wannabe*. Fifteen minutes after I start, the hoodie comes off. Fifteen minutes after that, the raincoat/windbreaker wannabe comes off. It’s still windy, but I’m really warming up.

* Hmm. Now that I got my hiking shoes, I need to look into a proper raincoat. Much as I love my army market poncho that’ll survive any Southeast Asia tropical squall (tried and tested), I need to look into getting a raincoat I can wear in the city without looking like a trash collector. Like a North Face or Adidas. My current raincoat was a last minute purchase the day before I left for Italy. $12, Kid’s XL. It works, but a bit lacking in the style area. Especially when I’m on the streets of Venice and don’t want to look like I just got off the boat from China.

Where was I? Oh yes, past Fort Mason to Presidio.

It is a nice residential area with Victorian type houses that face the water. If San Francisco is one of the most expensive cities to live in, those must definitely be in the stratospheric price range.

There, I come to Crissy Field, a military base turned national park and bird sanctuary of sorts. Lovely place to cycle, bring the dog to run, bring the kids to play, fishing, picnicking on the beach, kite-flying or kite-surfing. Max would love it here. Big stretches of grass to run, dig and roll in. I miss Max.

At the end of Crissy Field, right before Fort Point, is the Warming Hut. I had to go in to cool down. Buy a few postcards, then it’s off to the Golden Gate Bridge.

The sight of the Golden Gate Bridge is inspiring. Designed by Joseph Strauss, Chief Engineer in charge of overall design and construction, San Franciscans have architect Irving Morrow to thank for the colour of the city’s most famous landmark.

It looks red, but officially is an orange vermilion called international orange (similar to safety orange). Morrow chose it as he felt it would blend well with the natural surroundings yet enhance the bridge’s visibility in fog.

It’s amazing how as I pass the first/north tower, the sun’s out and the sky’s blue. But approaching the second/south tower, the bridge is cloaked in fog. It’s most surreal and really sets the mood for San Francisco.

The city and the bay are behind me. Traffic is whizzing past just inches away on the other side of iron railings. I look west towards the ocean. Gulls are soaring in the air. Cormorants fly low, almost at the water’s level in a straight line. But what takes my breath away is the rugged beauty of the Marin Headlands.

It could also be that I’m gasping for air because I’m old and unfit (as compared to before when I was younger and unfit). The bridge spans about 1.2km.

I’m momentarily lost at the other end of the bridge. The bike track ends and I’ve got to get onto the road. Only it looks more like a highway. With speeding cars, trucks and buses. At this point, I’m a little regretting I didn’t opt to get a helmet. Not that a helmet will help when I’m pit against a two-ton truck.

When in doubt, follow others like you (cyclists, like locals on bikes, not people in doubt). Everyone’s most probably headed towards Sausalito anyway. I manage my way onto the smaller roads and eventually get there after about 20 minutes.

Sausalito’s a small but beautiful city. Expensive looking too. There’s lots to see and do. One main street runs through the city and it’s quite touristy, but it’s targetted at a higher income group of tourists. Not many stores hawking souvenir bells and spoons here.

The atmosphere of the city is relaxed. Maybe because it’s a holiday, but there are no crazy business here. Only yachts and homes. The locals are very friendly. And they think I’m Japanese.

By the time I finished lunch — I had pasta vongole, I wanted to pamper myself — the sun had come out in full force. I wouldn’t have time to make it to Muir Woods or Tiburon, and I didn’t want to rush things, so I spent a pleasant afternoon just walking around the marina.

It was nice walking on the jetty. I always like that, the wobbliness of the jetty. Harassed jellyfish in the water, took pictures of the houseboats and sailboats, cursed my camera for running out of batteries (I gotta get a new camera soon, this one is almost dead and the batteries are both shot).

Amongst all the nice yachts, there was an eccentric “Taj Mahal” at the end of the Yacht Harbor. Curiouser and curiouser.

By late afternoon, I was slipping into a mellow mood, so I closed my visit with a glass of red before catching the ferry (don’t drink and ride) back to San Francisco. Had to return my bike before the shop closed, and seeing that I took the ferry back to Ferry Building, I then had to ride all the way back up to Pier 41, then discovering that it was already closed, rushed to the depot on Hyde St all panting and gasping for air. Well, that’s one way to work off the alcohol.

Blazing Saddles

And then we have these guys. Blazing Saddles at Pier 41 (and five other locations). A family owned and operated company that started over 20 years ago.

They give a proper briefing on the bike routes around the Presidio and Crissy Field area to the Golden Gate Bridge, all the way to Marin County, Sausalito, Muir Woods and Tiburon. You can choose to get a helmet or not (but will have to sign a waiver for the “not”).

Someone else at another station will choose a bike to fit you — I got a 13.5-inch frame, coz “I’m kinda small”. He’ll brief you on how to use the bike, its gears, what the do’s and don’ts are, and don’t forget the bike lock. There’s even an elastic strap to hold your bag. Then he’ll let you ride around to see if you’re comfortable with the bike. The bike comes with a pouch in front for convenience, as well as a map on the handlebars for quick and easy reference.

I like dealing with pros.

Blazing Saddles
Tel: (415) 202-8888
www.blazingsaddles.com

Bike envy

A couple of weeks back, my penpal and I rented bikes to cycle around the Golden Gate Park. Ooh, I hate that bike/bike shop.

For starters, when I told the guy at the shop that the bike was a little tall, his response was that he only had those two bikes left. I asked about a third, shorter bike parked outside, he said he didn’t have the key to that one (and didn’t bother to go check if anyone else in the shop knew). The best he could do was to lower the seat for me. I’m like, fine, I’ll manage somehow, it’s not like we had a choice since my penpal already kinda paid.

Only after we got on our bikes did we realise they had foot brakes (also called coaster brake, or back pedal brake, or torpedo) (torpedo?). The bikes also had three gears but were automatic change. Again, it’s not like we had any choice since there weren’t other shops around, and the bikes were already paid for. Grrr.

I don’t know what the benefits of foot brakes are, I’m no expert on bikes, and I’m sure there are plenty, but I still don’t like them. I’m used to brake levers on the handlebars. I’ve tried bikes with foot brakes before, but very very briefly, like up and down a short road on my neighbour’s bike. I could adapt, but when I needed to brake fast, my hands just reflexively try to brake. Except in this case, they’re grabbing at air. Straight out of the bike shop, my bike rolls forward into a lamppost just to stop. Later, in the middle of the crowded centre of Haight and Ashbury, I slide into a tree. Perfect.

As for the automatic gear change, I like to dictate when I want to change my gears. Not have it shift while I’m cycling which causes my foot to slip, which is troublesome as I currently have to concentrate of a new way of braking. It also didn’t help that I was wearing flip-flops, which is normally not a problem, except that I had a lot of issues with this bike. (Issues like I hate it.)

It didn’t take long before I was looking at other riders and envying their bikes. Not because they had particularly fancy bikes, but that they had handbrakes. Even that kid with the training wheels… Or that couple on the tandem bike…

I realise this is a rant. And, yes, I’m a poor rider blaming the bike. So I’ll keep it short. But I hate that bike.

Did I mention I hate that bike?

The better Bún Bō Huế here

Sixth Street between Market and Mission is, how shall we say, one of the livelier blocks in the city with bodies wrapped in grungy blankets on the sidewalk, bag ladies and shopping cart men shaking the gates of closed stores, panhandlers and crazy guys without shoes.

Still, if you keep your eyes on the ground and walk fast, you’ll probably soon reach Tu Lan Vietnamese Restaurant. It is a restaurant, albeit one with sticky linoleum floor and bright fluorescent light. But don’t doubt its authenticity. The maître d’ (who’s also the cashier-cum-bouncer) gives you directions in halting English without leaving his post by the entrance, pointing out the empty seats at the counter, inside or the steps to upstairs, while the rest of the crew bark orders or exchange gossip at the top of their voices in Vietnamese and the chefs behind the counter fry fervishly with flames licking the sides of their woks.

I ordered a Bún Bō Huế. I love Bún Bō Huế. And while none have tasted better than my original experience in the city of Huế, Vietnam, I never stop searching and hoping.

It was good. It may not be the best in San Francisco, but for the price I was paying, it was good. (A bowl of noodles at a Thai eatery on Union Square costs about $8-10. Here, it costs about $4-5.)

The soup was little bit on the oily side, but I was just glad for the familiar side plate stacked full of bean sprouts and cilantro and a wedge of lemon. The mint was missing though, but the beef was tender and juicy. The serving was generous and all in, this was still a happy meal in my books. When I left the restaurant, the cook was squatting by the front door enjoying his cigarette break. Reminded me of home. Awesome.

You can reach Tu Lan with a five minute walk from Union Square. You know you’re getting near when you see nice shop, nice shop, nice shop, then shop with grills in the window, shop with chains, bolts and locks, cracked glass, and graffiti. (Fifth Street and Market in downtown is amazing because of how there’s this unseen yet clearly understood and adhered to boundary that divides one neighbourhood from another. It’s crowd and noise then suddenly homeless people. Westfield mall on one side of the road and then nothing much on the other and beyond.)

But seriously, walking there for dinner isn’t so bad because it’s summer and the sun sets late. I’ll want to come back again, the broccoli, mixed vegetables and rice looked good. Still, don’t tell my mum.

Tu Lan
8 6th Street (at Stevenson St)
San Francisco, CA 94103
Tel: (415) 626-0927
Review courtesy of yelp. 

Arting around

Other amazing museums in San Francisco are the MH de Young Museum at the Golden Gate Park and the San Francisco Modern Museum of Art at SOMA near downtown.

The former is an architectural masterpiece by designers Herzog & de Meuron, the same visionaries who designed the Olympic Stadium in Beijing, the Allianz Arena in Munich and Prada Building in Aoyama, Tokyo, just to name some.

The idea for the copper building is that as the material oxidises, its colour will turn green thus blending with the colours of the Golden Gate Park in which it resides.

The viewing tower that looks like a fortress has free entry. Go visit it for an amazing view of the city.

The SFMOMA. It has an interesting collection of modern art, beginning with Matisse, Rothke and even some Picasso.

You’ll see one of its highlights, Woman with a Hat, the Matisse painting that began the Fauvism movement. Because when it debuted at Salon d’Automne in 1905, art critic Louis Vauxcelles described the style as a wild beast, “fauve” in French. (The colours were jarring and unnatural, a leap away from traditional paintings.)

Anyway, I recommend the free tour as it takes you through Matisse to Marcel Duchamp to Pollock, Picasso and Rothke.

I missed the Friedlander photography exhibition coz it had just ended. But there was an installation that was colourful and quite interesting, by Danish-Icelandic artist Olafur Eliasson. It’s mesmerising because the facets of glass are coloured only one way. You walk through it all captivated, then as you walk back, it’s just glass.

San Francisco Museum of Modern Art
sfmoma.org
de Young Museum
famsf.org/deyoung

Honor to art

I went to the Legion of Honor last week to catch the exhibition on Annie Leibovitz (it ended on 25 May), she’s one of my favourite photographers, but an hour after entering, I was still in the Rodin Collection, walking back and forth the three galleries.

The California Palace of the Legion of Honor was a gift to San Francisco by Alma de Bretteville Spreckels, a sculptor’s nude model who married well and donated this artistic tribute to Californians killed in France in WWI. Fittingly, the museum has a huge collection of sculptures by Auguste Rodin and Henry Moore.

I love Rodin’s works. His most ambitious work, The Gates of Hell (La Porte de l’Enfer), based on Dante’s Inferno, is made up of many elements from which original sculptures were enlarged and become famous masterpieces on their own.

Such as The Thinker (Le Penseur), The Three Shades (Les trois Ombres), Fugitive Love (Fugit Amor), and many others. My favourite is The Kiss (Le Baiser). I got a scolding once for trying to take a picture of The Kiss at the Tate Modern, London.

But on this trip, even though there was a smaller version of The Kiss in the collection, it was a small sculpture that caught my attention and literally stopped me in my tracks, squeaking sneakers on varnished museum floor and all. It was in a glass case with a few other pieces, and together with its base, it’s about 12 inches tall. Still, it was… unusual.

That’s what caught my eye. That’s why I like it. It’s titled Woman Seated with Her Foot in the Air. Marble. ca 1890.

She’s not posing. She’s not reclining nor stretching languidly. She’s not dancing. It’s an odd pose, yet beautiful to look at. Somehow feminine. Pretty. To me.

Anyway, another piece I liked is also a sculpture. (I love art, but I’ve always been more a painting person. I mean, I know of the famous sculptures, I have my favourites, but I’ve never really appreciated them till I was in Italy last year. It was like a epiphany on sculpture or something. But that’s another story for another day.)

It’s a masterpiece called Columbus as a Boy by Giulo Monteverde. There’s something in the subject. He’s holding a book, but not reading. Instead, he’s looking into the distance, quite seriously actually, and not in a dreamy manner as one would think. There’s something in his eyes…

Speaking of eyes, here’s a painting that also caught my attention. It’s said that Manet painted several studies of Jesus Christ, some with his eyes downwards or heavenwards. He destroyed the ones he didn’t like, but this was saved because he turned it into a gift for someone. The eyes are enigmatic and the expression hard to describe.

Hands. Hands are hard to draw. I could fill a sketchbook full of studies of hands and not get them right (which actually means I can’t draw). Not just delicate manicured feminine hands, but real hands. Peasant hands or worker hands. They’re fascinating. In a conversation of what girls look at about a guy, broad shoulders, torso, etc, I would actually add hands. But that’s just me.

And then I finally made it to the Annie Leibovitz Exhibition.

Titled A Photographer’s Life 1990-2005, it was excellent as expected. She’s often described as a portrait photographer. That said, she doesn’t shoot often in a studio, but often a location, whether a dressed up hotel suite or the subject’s own home. She also shoots celebrities, who already project themselves well. Still, she captures a beautiful moment in whoever or whatever she’s shooting, whether a poignant story or just a portrait of pure beauty.

The exhibition was in conjunction with her eponymous book. So if the exhibition doesn’t tour where you live, all is not lost. Just look out for the book at the nearest bookstore. Or you can probably get any of her photography books (after all, this one is named “photographer’s life”, but covers only 15 years, albeit significantly meaningful ones).

Your coffee table would be honoured to have them.

Easy peasey Japanesey

I love Japanese food. Chweets, FZ and I, we never say no to eating Japanese.

So it’s no different now that I’m travelling in San Francisco. Walking 25 blocks to Kabuto, the Japanese restaurant in Richmond recommended by the guidebook was a not an issue. Then imagine my dismay when I arrived at the address to find hoardings and boarded up windows.

Panic. Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe I saw the door plates wrong. But there are faded out Japanese words on the marquee. The restaurant had moved and there was no sign indicating where it moved to. (Cue to dramatic “Noooooooo!”)

Frantically I look around and flip through the book again. Maybe I did get the address wrong. Nope… Then joy of joys, what do I see? A restaurant across the road with the name of Kabuto. This can’t be like home where when a restaurant gets famous, a dozen copycats move into the area and with similar sounding names hoping to gain from the confusion of the populace. This is San Francisco.

I cross the road, and there a half a dozen accolades from the likes of Zagat pasted in the window. I’m at the right place, all right. Kudos to the owner for staying within the area when moving.

To think I almost missed seeing it simply because the facade is so unassuming, so normal. No bright fancy signages. From the outside, the interiors look simple, not posh and fancy or overly decorated. I like it already.

I ordered a clam miso, a Sayori (Pencil Fish) Sushi and the Fire Salmon Roll. The Sayori Sushi was exquisite. Light. I didn’t know sashimi could be light and refreshing until now. I’m trying to place the vegetable used, I’ve tasted it before, recently, but I simply can’t recall where or the specific occasion/meal. (But no worries, my brain’s still processing the information and it’ll come to me one day.) Whatever it was, it complemented the delicate flavour of fish perfectly.

The Fire Salmon Roll. Whatever the secret sauce was, there was a summer matsuri festival of flavours in my mouth and 10,000 taste buds were celebrating. You know how in manga comics a character can eat something so good, it’ll make him weep with joy? 好幸福…

The next day, I take a bus to Sunset (Richmond is north of Golden Gate Park, Sunset is south of it) in search of Vietnamese, also one of my favourite cuisines. I found the restaurant I was seeking, but it looked kinda stuffy. I wasn’t in the mood for stuffy food, so I made a beeline for Ebisu nearby. (There was also Hotei across the road, and I was tempted to go there coz it looked like a ramen place. I later found out they have the same owner.)

The atmosphere in Ebisu is cosier, more traditional than Kabuto. I was early and alone so I skipped the line for most part. There’s a choice of three dining experiences: at the sushi bar manned by four energetic sushi chefs, in traditional dining room where guests remove their shoes and sit on tatami mats, or at tables.

Sushi bar it is, so I can get my food faster. The Rainbow Roll is amazing. Different types of sushi wrapped together so you enjoy a platter of different flavours, with the right balance of greens and wasabi in the mix. Oishiii!

Kabuto Sushi
5121 Geary Blvd
San Francisco, CA 94118
Tel: (415) 752-5652
kabutosushi.com

Ebisu
1283 9th St
Tel: (415) 566-1770
ebisusushi.com 

If the shoe fits

It’s a pain buying shoes.

(Could it be true? A female with an aversion for shoes? The shock!)

Let me clarify. It’s a pain buying shoes, but no, not girlie fashion work type of shoes. For those, I can find something faster than you can say “Look, shoe sale.”

However, when it comes to trainers or trekking shoes, or sometimes even streetwear sneakers, I despair. Because it’s no longer about what I want or like, it’s about what they have in my size.

I go into stores all bright-eyed and hopeful. “I want Gore-Tex.” “Can I see that design or colour?” Chances are, the store will not what I’m eyeing in my size. In the end, it comes down to: “Okay, what models do you have in my size? I’ll pick one from there.”

(It runs in the family, I guess. One grandmother has the same size feet as me. My other grandmother’s feet are smaller. None of them were bound, thank goodness.)

Once when I was buying a pair of Golas, the assistant at the shoe store claimed they did not make those models in UK size 3. I was arguing that just because the store did not stock up that size did not mean the makers don’t manufacture that size. Because they do, I checked their website. I finally found a pair in my size in some obscure shoe store in Peninsula Plaza (they got cool shoes there though).

My last pair of hiking shoes were from the kids section, which made them cheaper plus they were on sale. Because even the Timberland store didn’t have or had run out of my size in the women’s section and I couldn’t wait for new as I was going to need them within the fortnight. (Anyway, those kid shoes were cheaper plus they were on sale.)

Then there are trainers.

A bit about me: The activities I like to or used to do, I hardly have use for my trainers. Aikido, dragonboat, yoga, archery, sailing. And I don’t wear trainers when I cycle coz the sole juts out and hits the crank of the pedal and trips me. (Instead, I wore my youngest brother’s Boy Scout shoes when he outgrew them.)

I don’t really run. I do try, once in a blue moon (um, really blue moon). One time I decided to start and leaving my home, I thought not to take the lift and run down instead. Two floors later, I slipped on the stairs and sprained my ankle.

And because I don’t run, or because of the quality of Nike shoes (no one I know who seriously runs runs in Nike), my trainers atrophy. I tried again to run when my dragonboat team started circuit training. Maybe it was the sudden shock and trauma of being worn and run in, but my shoes fell apart. I was running my second lap when the right sole flew off. Literally. Like a pancake. It looked pretty funny when it happened, but I twisted my ankle. (It’s a sign, I tell you.)

For two years I didn’t own trainers and kept putting off getting a new pair. I figured it was time when I was in Bali for a seminar and my colleagues wanted to trek up Mt Batur to catch the sunrise.

Since I don’t run, I’m not that meticulous about the technical stuff, but I was hoping to get a pair of New Balance (or Asics, though they were pricier). For two hours, I walked from store to department store to store again and more stores with the criteria “what New Balance or other not-Nike shoe do you have in my size in a colour/design that I can kinda tolerate?”

I’m pretty happy with my greyish with light pink accents New Balance. They got pretty beat up that night walking on dust, dirt, soil, grass, mud, volcanic rock and shale. So I’m pretty happy they got worn in so fast. Check them out – they even match the sunrise over holy Mt Agung.

 

So now we come to the point of this post. I needed new trekking shoes.

My kid Timberlands gave way last November in Italy. All that walking up and down hill towns, trekking in Cinque Terre, tree climbing on the olive farm… The bottom layer of sole began peeling off, first on the left shoe, then the right. I had to superglue them back. Twice. They were old anyway, having traipsed around for about seven years.

I was hoping to get a new pair of trekking shoes on this trip. I mean, all the big name trekking shoes pretty much come from USA, don’t they? (Granted they’re really made in China or Vietnam or some other third world nation…)

This started out as an “I should” but now it’s an “I gotta”.

I wanna get out of the city. I’m thinking of going Yosemite or something. A check at all the malls in Union Square, at DWS, Shoe Pavilion, North Face, New Balance, Lady Foot Locker and Champs… nothing. Then I met my ex-boss for lunch and he gave a few suggestions: Lombardi Sports in Polk, a Patagonia store on Hyde and Leavenworth, or Sports Basement in Mission or Presidio.

I had chanced upon Lombardi’s early in the trip and it didn’t seem like they had much outdoor stuff. So from downtown, I hop onto a bus and headed to Sports Basement in Potrero Hill near Mission, an industrial area beside a gritty neighbourhood.

The range was big. At least three floors of good stuff and staff that were helpful and kinda knowledgeable. Also affordable with some really good bargains so if you go there you could get lucky. Most important of all, they sometimes had my size. Yay.

Sure, I did wish I had some friends with me, especially those who do sports, so I could get advice on technical bits (like I didn’t get the pair that was more snug as I think my feet may expand when I get back to hotter weather) or a second opinion on which model to get (whether the lighter pink-grey pair or the more heavy duty pair), or just questions on aesthetics (“Do these shoes make me look fat?”).

So: Tadah! My new pair of Merrell shoes. They’re very basic. Nothing fancy. I did kinda have something else in mind when I first wanted new shoes (I was originally thinking of boots). I wish I had more time to shop around and compare designs. I wish these were cooler looking. They blend well with the rocks on Crissy Field, but clash with the starfish. Beggars can’t be choosers.

I guess I’m a happy camper.

Sports Basement
1590 Bryant St (between 15th & 16th)
sportsbasement.com