Frisco Day Two: The One in Which Nobody Violates a Commandment.

Action Items:
1. See some of the city
2. Procure more fatty Chinese noodles
3. Dinner w/a bunch of Irish folks at an Irish bar
4. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, M!!!
5. Movie?

I opened my eyes around 6:16. I don't remember why, precisely, but I think it had something to do with the fact that M and C were talking about how they weren't going to fucking make it to their fun run. But they would go to the hotel gym for full workouts to atone.

My response?

"Bye muhfuggas, wake me when you get back!"

Of course, I then proceed to wake up fully, journal and shower, because I am an asshat. Who doesn't sleep when she should. At some point, M and C return and we head out for brekkie.

We get no further than the hotel breakfast room, which has a derishus looking morning spread. Nearly everything each of our little hearts could desire. We stuffed ourselves just shy of crazy. Whoops. There goes that non-violation of commandments thing. Oh no, wait, gluttony is a sin, not excluded in the commandments. Excellent. Onward.

1. See City
We wander off to explore the glory that is Chinatown. Then we wander into Little Italy. M takes mass while C and I wander a wee bit more. Then M returns and we wander in the general direction of some beat-poet hippy bookstore, I don't remember which, M is the lit teacher after all. No wait, it's called City Lights. Whatevers. It is closed. It is Turkey Day after all. Even hippies gotta eat. And on Turkey Day, you can usually scare up something for free. Fortunately, Vesuvio Caffe (255 Columbus Ave.) is right next door, ready to welcome us into its slam-poetry -birthing arms. We have a round. It is just after noon.

Again, it isn't a commandment, people.

M tries to convince us that, despite the fact that there is a titty bar on practically every block in this particular neighborhood, we aren't in the red light district. That San Francisco doesn't even have one, it's everywhere. I'll buy that when the harpist who plays in full evening dress at the Fairmont bar breaks it down with some booty-clapping.

We wander through North Beach down to Fisherman's Wharf and look at all the people and sniff at sourdough bakeries and what have you. A gruby street hawker looks at us and yells to C, "Hey man, you got two women with you, alright!"

"That's just how we do in Chicago," C replies.

I love his crazy ass.

At some point, we watch the sea lions lazing on the floaty docks. We take some pictures of the splendor around us. Then we (I) start getting grumpy. I'm hungy. I have been promised fatty Chinese noodles (see Action Item #2), but nobody else is peckish. And I've worn my heeled boots rather than my Pumas, and we have been walking forever. It's a funny time, since we know we'll be doing Thanksgiving dinner in a few hours. But I'm still goddamn hungry, and ready to throw a fit. (Listen, there are three of us. At any given time, two will be grown-ups and one will be child. It's just how the dynamic works, damnit.)

We stop by a bakery, the name of which I cannot recall, and buy a big sourdough turkey, which is adorable as all get out. I am somewhat appeased.

Then we get outside and M decides it's too cute to eat right there. We should save it for the big dinner.

I'm not, shall we say, thrilled with this decision? But before I can kick up a proper fuss, some gnarly homeless-looking dude, who has been sitting quitely, holding a bunch of bushy branches in front of himself, all cartoon-commando style, jumps out of nowhere and scares the holy-rolling-motherfuck out of the lot of us. The small crowd that has assembled to watch Ram-bro scare the shit out of unsuspecting passersby finds us highly amusing. Bitches.

I temporarily forget my hunger.

We stagger up to the Ghirardelli Square shop because M thinks I really want to see it. I don't remember, maybe I had wanted to, but by the time we get there I want to die. But you see, the beauty of a good traveling group is the ability of the happy members to rally the bitching one. I want coffee, you see, something to pick me up. M spots the Buena Vista Cafe (2765 Hyde St.) and says, "Hey, I bet they got Irish coffees there!"

Bless her.

Yeah, we had those. And some nachos and buffalo wings, too. Thank friggin' Christ.

After that, I'm golden. We hobble several blocks back toward the hotel, trying to catch a cab. No dice. C finally procures one like, five blocks (or ten, whatever), from the hotel, which would normally piss me off, having walked as far as we have, but have you seen those goddamn hills? I am happy for anything by this point.

When we get to the hotel, IB calls to tell us dinner has been moved up from 5:30 to 5. We need to hie ourselves over to the dinner spot, O'Reilly's Irish Pub (622 Green St.), ASAP, since it is well after 4. So we clean up, grab our contributions to the meal--M's birthday cake, a bottle of vino and that fucking bread-turkey--and hop into another cab.

The cabby gets frustrated with the progress a car ahead of us is making, though, and zips around them. There is an ominous thunk-y sound as we pass, but cabby speeds us on down to the bar. As we pay and I'm waiting for our change, the car from before rolls up. The passengers are pissed. The cabby, they say, clipped their car.

M, C and I sort of slink off into the bar while cabby ("I've got three witnesses who saw you swerve into my lane!" and the other car's passengers ("Sir, we were trying to pull into that driveway!" battle it out.

3. Dinner with the, oh for love of Mary, you know we only hung out with Irish folks, let's just call it dinner.

IB isn't there yet, but he soon shows up and we meet his assembled crew of compatriots: a couple of funny Irish blokes and their cute American-hipster ladyfriends.

We sit down to an Irishish take on Turkey-day dinner: a $38 prix fixe menu of oxtail soup, turkey with ham and gravy, mashed potatoes, mashed yams, cranberry sauce, stuffing, buttery veggies and dessert. We share our wine (gone in a snap) turkey bread (M licks its "eyeball" in front of assembled company to determine its substance. We think it was an olive. Did I mention the sharing of wine? Oh, okaygood.) and the cake from some chocolicious heaven. Except, that cake, which was supposed to serve 10-12 people, served all eight of us, with 2/3 of the cake to spare.

4. Happy Birthday, M!
We should really have shared it with the folks at the other table, a big, rowdy bunch of folks who jumped right in when we sang M "Happy Birthday." It was fabulous. Hippo Birdie, dear!

After dinner, we all return to the bar area for a round and some chat. I have no idea what in hell was discussed. I was someplace else, man, I'm a bitch like that. I don't remember why, though. I'm sure it all seemed very heavy and important at the time. Just as I was about to step out to take a stroll to clear my head, though, M and C got ready to roll, and we ended up heading back to the hotel, ostensibly to relax and find something else to do, like see a movie.

No dice. By the time we made it back and hunted down a paper to discover there was fuck-all to do besides eat and drink, M and C were ready for nighty-nights, and honestly, so was I.

So of course we all sat around having a goddamn pajama party until near midnight before finally going to sleep. For the love of God. If C had more hair, and they weren't both doing spa treatments the following day, it would totally have devolved into curlers, facials, pillowfights and nail-polishing.

So you see? At least one night of the Hills, Thrills and Hunnid Dolla Bills tour ended rather quietly.