Sonoma County: A Colonial Spanish Remnant

(Among the grape-laden vineyards of Sonoma County)

The beauty of the Sonoma Valley came to me as a huge surprise. So much is written about Napa, so little about its equally stunning twin. In fact, Sonoma has far more history and Spanish culture than it’s better-known counterpart. Our entry into the area was heralded by the presence along the highway of extensive vineyards heavily laden with rich purple and jewel-like green grapes. In the distance, occasionally, one spied passing wineries with their showrooms presenting a Tuscan façade—red tiled roofs, adobe walls, heather, lavender and rosemary amidst their fragrant gardens. It was truly heavenly and I couldn’t wait to explore a few.

But since it would be foolish to indulge in ‘tastings’ on an empty stomach, Tonus, our tour guide,  cleverly took care of our appetites first, driving us to Sonoma Plaza which immediately reminded me of the grand plaza in Santa Fe, New Mexico—and for very good reason indeed.

The Plaza  with its handsome theater(left) was the outcome of the creation of a Spanish mission in the area, the last one built by the industrious Fr. Junipero Serra, who traveled throughout the Californian coast setting up his missions. The Sonoma Mission House still stands today and may be visited for it is run as a museum. Right next door to it is the Toscano Hotel, a two-storey wood frame building that dates from the 1850s and which the visitor can tour if time permits. The plaza itself, a square shaped patch of lawn with a sprinkling of sculptural monuments, was full of visitors picnicking on the pickings they had obtained from the famous Sonoma Jack Cheese Factory where Tonus took us to find sustenance.

And what a treat that turned out to be! While I foraged for a packaged sandwich, made fresh on the premises, I wandered around to the Cheese section where there were any amount of Jack cheeses available for sampling. You name the Jack cheese, they had it—Jalapeno Jack, Black Pepper Jack, Mild Jack, Extra Sharp Jack, etc. The store also thoughtfully provided slices of pepperoni and salami and a delicious cheese spread with a vast bin full of cubed bread, any number of toothpicks and loads of waste bins to toss them away. For cheese lovers, this was heaven, and being a cheese lover, I thought I had died and gone up there as I ate my fill, my sandwich going untouched in my bag. The Sonoma Cheese Factory has been producing Jack cheese since the 1930s and visitors can watch the process through a window in the back.
I, however, preferred to explore the town, making a complete circle on foot around the square (if such a thing is possible) and browsing freely in the many chic shops that line the plaza. As might be expected, there were gift stores galore competing with food and wine stores, upscale restaurants, and even a very old theater.

At one end of the plaza is the lovely stone City Hall (left) , a Mission Revival Building that sports a clock on its façade and proudly flies the Star Spangled Banner—a far cry, of course, from the days when California was Spanish colonial territory and home to thousands of Mexicans. Once gold was found in the region, boom—it became US territory. Down came the Spanish flag and up went the Stars and Stripes.
Once we clambered on to the bus again, our serious discovery of Sonoma Wine Country began. Tonau, a wine connoisseur himself, took us to two wineries that afternoon—what he called “a boutique” winery and a “mass-production” one. The boutique winery is called Homewood Wineries and is the brainchild of David Homewood who produces no more than 3,000 bottles per year from vineyards that lie just beyond his oak barrels.

It was such a delight to move into the tasting room where Pierre, David Homewood’s PR Man, gave the ten of us a wonderfully enlightening lecture/demonstration/tasting that lasted over an hour during which time we tasted, compared and rated about ten wines produced on site.
I am amazed at how much I learned in that single afternoon.

Next stop: The mass-production winery called Viansa, a totally lovely Tuscan-style villa perched high up on a hill and surrounded by picturesque gardens and vine-ripened fruit ready for the picking (left) . We piled out of the bus and made our way to the main home where the oak barrels are kept ageing in underground caves, then made our way to the ‘loggia’ or back of the house. There, picnic tables were thoughtfully laid out for the pleasure of visitors who trooped into the adjoining deli where a true cornucopia of delights awaited.

As in Napa, so too here, I wound my way through the appetizing aisles sampling every manner of olive, mustard, salsa, cheese, horseradish dip, and for dessert, chocolate sauce, cookies and biscotti, all made fresh on the premises and bottled or packaged for easy carry-home convenience. I had just eaten such a vast selection of cheeses at the Sonoma Jack Cheese Factory but that did not stop me from nibbling at leisure through these amazing food aisles. I decided to give the wines a miss, though I’m sure they were quite wonderful. I felt that three full glasses an afternoon was about as much as I could handle and having had my fill at Homewood, I couldn’t sip another glass. Outside, on the patio, the sun shone warmly, a slight breeze stirred over the vineyards and wafted towards the distant hills. Blue skies dotted with fluffy clouds completed the picture of my Italian idyll and if I closed my eyes, I could have easily transported myself to a tiny village in Umbria or Tuscany—it was that seductive.

Make a visit to Sonoma not just for the wines but for the history and culture preserved, as if in aspic, in this part of Northern California that is a true Colonial Spanish remnant.

Bon Voyage!

Santa Cruz:  City by the Sea

(Outside my room in the chalet-like building in the midst of the giant redwood forests of the University of California at Santa Cruz) 

Santa Cruz is a neat little city by the sea–by the Bay, really, MOnterrey Bay, at whose head it nestles quietly in the midst of soft fogs that swirls in at dawn and dusk each day.

A drive around the town revealed to me the interesting topography as well as the financial range of its inhabitants. Hugging the cliffs that dip steeply into the Pacific are expensive homes of varying design from Spanish-style haciendas and Santa Fe-style adobes to New England-style McMansions with all the bells and whistles. Sprucely landscaped gardens welcomed the visitors to these homes down neat paths to front doors that were splashed by salt spray. Ah, the privileges of the wealthy.

 Most of the people of Santa Cruz, however, live in modest homes along the hillsides. All action begins and ends at the beach which, in the manner of most English seaside resorts, has a lengthy pier that juts far out into the water. The rewards of walking all the way to the very end of the pier is the bellowing and sighting of sea lions who haul themselves out on the wooden scaffolding of the pier to rest from their endless swimming. I realized why they are called ‘lions’ when I heard them roar. Turning their heads upwards, they let out these great belly-turning grunts for no reason at all, then calmly turn over and settle down. It must be a disquieting sound in the dead of night.

 The pier is lined with shops selling cheap souvenirs, cotton candy, ice-cream and hotdogs—the predictable detritus of most American beach resorts. The water was not warm enough for a comfortable dip—which explains why most people were sunbathing and so few were actually in the water, though Santa Cruz is a popular surfing destination.

Its biggest attraction, however, apart from the boardwalk, is the amusement park on the edge of the sea where the country’s oldest roller coaster still gives bone-rattling rides to those who enjoy such thrills. The roller coaster is wooden and, though by today’s standards, its height is pretty unimpressive, I have long lost my appetite for such amusements. Those, like me, too chicken to brave the dips and climbs of a traditional roller coaster can opt for a much tamer ride that takes one along the periphery of the shore, the dangling baskets skimming under waves and sand at the same time.

For those with more sophisticated tastes, Santa Cruz does boast a few nice restaurants. We had dinner one night at Casablanca, a restaurant overlooking the seashore, where the entrée, a Salmon in a creamy citrus sauce was very delicious indeed and the dessert, a Chocolate Mousse Pie was absolutely scrumptious. On other evenings, I ate at O Mei, a Chinese restaurant with the most amazing selection of Asian fusion dishes, all of which were outstanding. Another evening found me at Avanti, an Italian restaurant that I found to be good if vastly over-priced. It is possible to eat out adventurously in Santa Cruz. For most other lovers of shopping, the venue is Pacific Avenue, a chic street with designer boutiques, museums and art galleries, selling everything from hip clothing and custom designed burgers to antiques and collectibles. 

My biggest kick, however, came from exploring the Robert Cowell State Park (left), about a half hour from Santa Cruz, to which my colleague  Jeff  Spear drove me. Though there were abundant giant redwood trees on campus itself, these were dwarfed by the proportions of the ones I saw in the Cowell Woods. I realized how the Lilliputians might have felt when they gazed up at Gulliver during his Travels. The word ‘tall’ would be a gigantic (pun unintended) understatement with which to describe them. They tower immensely above one’s head, their collective skimpy branches reaching out for the sun’s rays. This leaves most of the tree branchless. They also tend to grow in circles—like many baby trees surrounding the main mother tree. This gives the entire forest the appearance of a land inhabited by druids, or other creatures from some prehistoric past. We saw on display part of a tree trunk hacked out from out of a tree that was 3,500 years old. Visitors who exclaim “Jesus” when they see the trees for the first time are told, “Only one thousand five hundred years before His time to be exact”. YOu can see me below drawfed by the colossal tree trunks.

For those interested in such exploration, the campus of the University of California at Santa Cruz where I taught a summer course as a Visiting Professor is indeed a good place to visit. Apart from its location–perched up ligh in the mountains and overlooking Monterrey Bay on the one side and the Pacific Ocean on the other–it is set in the midst of giant redwood forests  which are enchanting at dawn and dusk when fog enshrouds the branches and whispers softly about early risers. Its many trails are ideal for hiking but beware, as the signs say, “of mountain lions”. That put paid to any plans I had to hike on my own in the woods.

Santa Cruz is a charming town indeed and particularly well geared to meet the needs of children. For me, a week spent in its cozy embrace was enough as I hightailed it off north along the spectacular Pacific Coast Highway to San Francisco.

Bon Voyage!

(In the shadow of the famous Golden Gate Bridge on a fog-enshrouded morning) 

We’ve all heard the song: “If you’re goin’ to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair”. Well…I would modify that and say, “If you go to San Francisco, be sure to take some warm clothes in your trunk”. San Fran was freezing and I mean bone-chillingly. For the entire week that I was there, the sun barely made an appearance. Thick clouds hovered over the city and fog blew in from the Bay bringing a chilly wind in its wake. It was very unpleasant for someone who, imagining that she was summering in California, had carried nothing but tank tops and cotton jeans. Thank goodness for a couple of hoodies that kept me somewhat snug, if hopelessly unvaried in my wardrobe. Yet, after one crosses over the Bay and its accompanying hills and goes past Berkely and Oakland and enters the valley beyond, the weather changes dramatically and you can swear you are in the Mediterranean. Maybe that’s why they grow all those wine grapes there. 
San Francisco is one of the country’s prettiest cities. Perched on a series of hills, it rises majestically from the water’s edge, presenting a tiered effect. Be prepared to do a lot of climbing. If you’re not fit enough to accomplish that, never you worry. There is an excellent public transport system, consisting of the underground BART (Bay Area Rapid Transport) and the cable car lines, not to mention a series of buses and trolleys that whiz you around the city very conveniently indeed. In fact, San Franciscans so love their cable cars that when a move was made to discontinue them, the citizens rose up in arms to protest.

Thus, two or three cable car lines continue to run, offering the tourist the opportunity to ride in an old-fashioned vehicle that travels at about ten miles per hour along trolley tracks for the princely sum of $5 per ride. This system is clearly tourist-dominated today which explains why you will see serpentine queues at the terminal points of these lines. Another fascinating thing to watch is the cable car turnaround at the end of the Powell-Hyde line and the Powell-Mason lines where the entire car is swung in the opposite direction on a giant wooden turntable illustrating the fact that low-tech does not necessarily mean inefficient. The Powell-Hyde line that I took from Taylor Street at the Fisherman’s Wharf provides the added thrills of climbing up then dipping down a series of hills as it makes it way to Market Street, causing me to bite off a few nails in nervousness as it conducted its breath-stopping maneuvers.

For someone without a car, the best way to see the city is to take the Hop-On Hop-Off City Sight-Seeing double-decker red bus. I have used these in other major cities (Dublin, Ireland and Vancouver, Canada, for example) and have not been disappointed. If bought on the Internet, one had the additional benefit of procuring two days sight-seeing for the price of one. Not a bad bargain when one is paying about $25 a ticket. The bus originates at the Fisherman’s Wharf but one might hop on at any of the 11 stops around the city. Plying once every half hour, it offers the most ingenious way of allowing tourists to stroll through a neighborhood on their own to meet it, as it were, on foot, before boarding the bus again for a dekko at the next neighborhood. In this fashion, I took walking tours of Chinatown and Little Italy and enjoyed them both.

San Francisco’s Chinatown (left) is the largest in North America. It was created after Chinese workers were brought in by the thousand to build the trans-Continental railroad in the mid-1800s. After the completed railroad snaked its way from sea to shining sea, the Chinese laborers stayed on, settling in the Bay Area and creating a Little China across the pond. Today, the area is bustling, busy and deeply interesting. I snooped around the souvenirs stores and bought a T-shirt for my brother Russel for $1.88 (yes, that is a dollar eighty-eight). I also bought a magnet and my stash of postcards for pennies. I poked around a few of the ancient temples with their intricate combination of pagodas and pediments on a street that was fully festooned with red Chinese paper lanterns with gold dragons and dogs painted on them. Typical architecture in the form of shops and buildings is very pretty indeed, some streets sporting balconies painted in such vivid colors, I thought I was in a Jackson Pollock painting. In a Chinese bakery, I ordered a moon bun that was thickly studded with dried fruit and nuts and was very tasty. Innumerable Chinese restaurants offered dim sum lunches that I was sorely tempted to taste. As in all Chinatowns around the world, the shopkeepers were eager to please and very attentive. When I had enough of Chinese culture, I boarded the bus again and proceeded to the next stop—the area known as North Beach which is also Little Italy.
Little Italy is the settlement of Italian immigrants who brought their food, culture and traditions to the city. It is a very intellectual area, studded with bookstores of which City Light (named after the Charlie Chaplin film) is most famous. Running right by it is Jack Kerouac Street, so-called because the Beat Poet frequently this enclave with his buddies and spent many a night drinking in its bars and speakeasies. At the flat-iron building that houses Café Zepoloft (?) today, Italian-American film-maker Francis Ford Coppola still edits his films and his writer protégés still work on scripts. I ordered and ate more pastries, this time Italian ones, from an Italian bakery that offered biscotti, napoleons, pine nut cookies and macaroons. Italian restaurants in this quarter serve steaming bowls of saucy pasta and minestrone and residents flock here for all manner of gigantic meals. At the Church of St. Francis of Assisi, a place where animals are blessed once a year, I admired the ornate altar and crossing Washington Park, I entered the Church of Saints Peter and Paul where baseball legend Joe DiMaggio hoped to marry Hollywood legend Marilyn Monroe but was prevented from doing so because they were both previously married and not yet divorced. However,once civilly married at City Hall,  they did pose on the church’s steps for the paparazzi. Inside, the marble altar is more ornate than its close companion, St Francis’, down on Columbus Street.

Using the same bus service, I made my way to the historic Ferry Building which, before the advent of the BART system, ferried passengers across the Bay to suburbs such as Tiburon and Sausalito. Today, the ageing building that features a handsome clock tower has been fully refurbished to house a variety of snazzy shops offering all manner of pricey enticements such as gourmet chocolates and candles, artisan bread and local wine. Perhaps the best-known restaurant in that building is The Slanted Door, made famous by its talented chef, Charles Phraan who specializes in Vietnamese fusion cooking. Deciding to try out his creations, I opted for lunch there and, seated at the bar where I made friends and chatted with a gay couple named Brian and Tim, I ordered the Pho Bo, a huge Vietnamese soup made abundant by the addition of glass rice noodles, smoked beef, sprouted beans, fresh basil (lots of it) and mushrooms. It was delicious and very filling and replete with my meal, I walked to Fisherman’s Wharf’s Pier 33 to take my tour to Alcatraz Island to see the infamous prison that closed down in the 1960s.

Tour to Alcatraz Island:
 Alcatraz Island lies a half hour ferry ride away in the Bay of San Francisco, a protruding rock first inhabited by Native American Indians, then by U.S. Defense forces during World War II. When the war ended, it was converted into a maximum security prison and attained notoriety as the place where such people as Al Capone of the Chicago Mafia spent years under lock and key. Today, the U.S. National Parks Service runs the island which has become a museum of sorts. Tickets to the island are sold on the hour, only a limited number of visitors permitted to cross the swirling currents and get to the island which is a paradise for a variety of bird life. Indeed, long before the ferry approaches the island, visitors spy snow-white egrets and night-dark commorants and any number of grey seagulls.
Once on the island, we were greeted by a cheerful park ranger named John who suggested that we watch a 15 minute movie giving a brief history of the island or proceed to the place from which audio tours are handed out for self-guided walks through the main prison. I chose to do both, watching the movie which I found quite fascinating indeed for its presentation of life on Alcatraz long before it became a prison and long after it disintegrated into disuse. When I did proceed up a steep hill to the Visitors Entrance, I was already within the prison. With the aid of the audio tour, I was able to traverse the space once occupied by some of the most notorious criminals in history. We were taken to the room in which they would have been fingerprinted and searched, provided with mandatory prison gear, then shown up to their cells to the raucous and jeering sounds of their cell mates.

The audio tour is one of the best I have ever taken. The Parks Service reportedly interviewed more than a thousand people to make the tape. In the voices of former prisoners and correctional officers, the story of Alcatraz is told in cold and realistic fashion. Examining the prisoner’s cells, their dining hall, the kitchen, their prison yard (where exercise was permitted once a day), the cells in which they were held is solitary confinement, etc. gave me the creeps. Fabulous sound effects and the use of actors to play the key roles of escapees, jailers, etc. make the entire experience extremely realistic and deeply troubling.

The masterminding of two successful escape bids was amazingly well re-enacted. The complete sterility of the environment, the sparseness of the prisoner’s belongings, the ways in which they found amusement (oil painting, reading Kant and Hegel by borrowing books from the library) were profoundly evocative of an era. There were also interviews with the families of the correctional officers and wardens for whose children Alcatraz was home. Despite the dangerous elements lurking in their own backyard, as it were, they had a very pleasant and comfortable life, crossing the bay by ferry each day to get to school and returning in the evening when the prisoners were safely locked up for the night. Of course, references to the movie Escape from Alcatraz were everywhere and I vowed to watch this sometime soon just as a visit to the Bridge on the River Kwai that I took in Thailand last year led me to watch the film of the same name again.
Back on the mainland, I took the Mason-Powell cable car back to Market Street before calling it a day.

(At Alamo Park in front of The Painted Ladies with the skyscrapers of downtown San Francisco in the background)

The next day, before I began my bus tour, I walked all the way to Alamo Park in the western reaches of the city to see a sight that has long been printed on postcards of San Francisco—the row of ‘Painted Ladies’, as the decorative row houses are called—with the city’s towering skyline just beyond it. The walk was very pleasant indeed and took me through parts of the city that I would never, otherwise, have explored. When I did get to Alamo Park, I found myself preceded by other eager-beavers strewn with cameras who positioned themselves in such a way as to overlook the majestic scene before us and get pictures from the best angles. Once again, distant fog blurred our pictures but the sight was so enchanting that I overlooked my disappointment and focused on the wisdom that had led me to discover this corner of the city for myself.

Later that morning, I took the Hop On Hop Off Bus once again and explored Union Square (left), San Francisco’s answer to New York’s Times Square. Encircled by fine department stores such as Macy’s and Neiman-Marcus and fancy hotels such as the Westin St. Francis (San Francisco is Italian for St. Francis, after all), the Square is highlighted by a bronze sculpture of the goddess of Victory created by Robert Aitken in 1903 that stands high on a towering pedestal. It is the central hub of the city with tourists seated on the steps, listening to buskers play music or provide street entertainment or walk busily in and out of the larger, more fancy stores. I chose to visit Gump’s, the department store that is a San Francisco institution, a kind of Tiffany’s, stocked full of jewelry, crystal and china to make any bride’s heart beat faster. 

Back on the bus, I made my way to the famous Fisherman’s Wharf where every tourist in the city seems to congregate. It is a busy pier-like place facing the waterfront where shops, restaurants, museums and amusement arcades (Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, for instance) are located. Deciding to get lunch first, I made my way to Cioppino’s (pronounced Chip-ee-nose), the restaurant that serves the famous Fish Soup called cioppino, San Francisco’s version of Marseille’s bouillabaisse. It is so-called because the soup was concocted when each Italian fisherman “chipped in” a part of his catch—one gave monkfish, another threw in some mussels, a third stuck in a crab while a fourth donated some clams and squid. Braised in a rich tomato-fennel broth, cioppino is served with hearty slices of garlic sourdough bread—at $22 it is expensive but made a filling meal for two. I took more than half of my soup away and ate it for dinner that evening.

Replete with my delicious native meal, I hopped on the bus again to take the Golden Gate Bridge Tour, which offered the experience of driving right over the bridge and taking pictures in the shadow of its graceful arches. Unfortunately, the bridge was shrouded in fog, scenes beyond the bay were barely visible and most visitors shivered in the damp air. Its rich ochre color came as something of a surprise to me but when viewed from certain angles, it presents itself as a very delicate, even fragile, structure indeed. The bus then looped us around the Presidio, which is a state park that borders the Bridge. Filled with the former barracks of soldiers that have now been converted into summer homes, it is a quiet and bucolic place, far from the bustle of traffic, yet just within the city’s shadow.
Driving further away from the bridge and towards the city, the bus deposited us at the Museum  of Fine Art whose domed roof and circle of Greek columns each of which was topped by a vestal virgin weeping for the sadness of a life without Art was stunning. We took many pictures in that enchanting spot and I was a little annoyed at tourists who frolicked upon the structures desecrating the sanctity of the place.

As the bus drove forwards, it climbed high into Pacific Heights, the elite part of the city where more ‘Painted Ladies’ reflect San Francisco’s prosperous heyday. These Victorian and Queen Anne style mansions give the city a very distinctive look—one of the most spacious, the gigantic Spreckles Mansion, is today occupied by romance novelist Danielle Steele who has constructed a huge hedge around her abode to discourage fans from snooping around–and compete with the more contemporary skyline that has developed in the wake of the construction of the downtown skyscrapers. Of these, the Bank of America building is the tallest but it seems dwarfed by the Transamerica Tower whose interesting modernist design makes it stand out. Other structures built on the city’s hills include Coit Tower to whose tops visitors can climb if they are so inclined. I declined the challenge just as I refused to climb to the heights of Lombard Street to see the “Crookedest Street in the World”, a narrow downhill winding street superbly manicured and decorated with a riot of flowers. I did see the street from a distance, though, and did not feel quite so deprived for giving it a miss.

 That evening, I met my friend Ash Rajan at The Westin St. Francis Hotel as he decided to treat me to a slap-up dinner at Michael Mina, the restaurant that is the most sought-after reservation in town. Before we sat down to dinner, though, we had fabulously creative martinis at Cliff’s, a very chic but understated hotel two blocks away where we sipped lychee martinis, lavender and lemon grass martinis and mandarin orange blossom and thyme martinis—all of which were fabulous. When we did get to Michael Mina’s, an hour later, we were treated like royalty. Mina’s exclusive menu features three to four variations of a single ingredient that becomes part of a prix fixe menu featuring an appetizer, entrée and dessert. Ash and I consulted long and hard about the menu and chose fois gras and lobster as our appetizers, pork and lamb for our entrees and chocolate and a selection of cheeses for our dessert. Accompanied by a glass of champagne and some exceptional wines, we enjoyed one of the most memorable meals of my entire life.
The tab was hefty to say the least but the unique experience was worth every penny and is highly recommended if your pocket should permit such indulgence.

Fisherman’s Wharf:
Indeed the Fisherman’s Wharf provides a great number of attractions to cheer the heart of even the most jaded tourist. Hence, I made a return to this spot.  I headed first for Ghirardelli Plaza, perched on a height, which, once I got there, opened up to a square around which was every manner of chocolate haven. Most visitors made their way, however, to the Original Ghirardelli Shop where the lines to get in were long and somewhat discouraging. However, they moved quickly. I joined the throng and realized why the site was so popular. Free samples of Ghirardelli squares were given to each visitor who could then choose to browse around the store selling chocolate or make their way into the ice-cream parlor where at the soda fountain bar, waiters took orders for gigantic sundaes each of which was flooded with the most luscious Ghirardelli hot fudge sauce, whipped cream and a cherry. I placed my order for a Chocolate Hot Fudge Sundae and seated myself at one of the tables inside where a waitress appeared magically, just a few seconds later, and presented me with a scrumptious scoop of Paradise in a glass.

With a bag full of chocolate samples, I walked away from the plaza and towards Pier 39, an amusement arcades of sorts, littered with souvenir stores, T-shirt shops, hot dog and burger stands and every manner of distraction for kid and adult alike. Then, because my guide book told me not to miss the sea-lions that congregate at the end of the Pier, I walked briskly towards the bellowing animals and watched their antics. At least a hundred of them had ‘hauled’ themselves upon the pier where they were being photographed by tourists in the midst of their deafening roars—a sight better than seen at any zoo.

Walking away from the Pier, I arrived at the Boudin Bread Factory where San Francisco’s famous sourdough bread originated. Indeed, the bread was created quite by accident when a batch of dough was ‘spoiled’ by the addition of a sour yeast starter. When the bread emerged and was tasted, however, it was found to be not just palatable, but delicious, and lo and behold, a winner was born. Sourdough bread loaves are hollowed to form bowls and are filled with creamy, hearty clam chowder all over the Wharf—a typical lunch for most visitors to San Francisco. As in all other gourmet stores, here too samples of sourdough bread were available for those who had just lunched and did not wish to purchase a whole loaf.

On second thoughts, San Francisco is such a fun city that you still might want to wear some flowers in your hair when you get there–just for fun, for that’s why the city stands.

Bon Voyage!