There are quite a few types of books that I'm automatically drawn towards. I like fantasy, I like science fiction, I like bizarre modern fiction, I like novels that deal with dreams and alternate realities. In recent years, I've also begun to automatically pick up books that are set in or predominantly feature the San Francisco Bay Area. That's pure parochialism on my part, but it's paid off well, in part because it has led me to check out entries from authors I haven't heard of or genres that I tend not to explore.
Take "The Fisherman's Son." I first heard about this book from my mom, and as soon as she mentioned that it was set in Half Moon Bay, I knew that I'd be reading it, no matter what. I'm definitely not an expert on HMB, having only visited it a handful of times, but it's an interesting part of our local fabric, and setting a whole novel there seemed like it would have to lead to some edification for me.
I'm not exactly sure how you would characterize the book, but perhaps "character study" comes closest. The main character is Neil, the titular fisherman's son. Most of the story is told in flashbacks that cover the majority of his life, from early childhood memories through adulthood, with the main focus on his early teen years when he first starts assisting his dad on the boat. Occasional italicized interludes report on his current predicament in the present day, so much of the book has an inherent tension as we try to anticipate how the decisions he's making will lead him to his plight.
The book has perhaps a half-dozen or so other characters who are all very well developed and form a pretty compelling, if insular, universe. The most important figure is his dad, the fisherman; the boy doesn't feel too connected with his father, even when they spend days on the boat together, and we get a lot of insight from the boy's interior monologue as he tries to understand what makes this man do the things he does. His father sometimes seems uncaring or cruel to the world around him, but he isn't at all a bad man, just one whose moral code has been shaped by the harsh realities of the sea.
The other family members, a mother and brother Paul, are more tied to the land, and as Neil moves more into his father's orbit, the other two drift farther away from him. At the same time, Neil develops a second family from his father's friends, other career fishermen, several of who are immigrants. There's some nice dialect here; dialect usually annoys me, but it's used in small quantities and to good effect here.
The book felt extremely well grounded in the local scenery. I don't think it's at all necessary to enjoy the book, but I was a bit thrilled to find that so much of the fishermen's surroundings match my own: Point Reyes, Pillar Point, the Golden Gate, Ano Nuevo, and more. That made me much more willing to go along with the stuff I didn't already know, like the different kind of fish that they catch at different seasons and in different areas (salmon close to the coast, tuna only rarely and very far out to sea).
The characters are all very focused on their present, but periodically events from the real world creep in in interesting ways. Some of these are large upheavels: Ott flees Germany to avoid conscription in the Wehrmacht, and Neil is eventually drafted and sent to war (I'm a bit unclear on whether it's Korea or Vietnam). The more interesting ones for me are smaller and more local: the government pays to build a breakwater in Half Moon Bay, which eliminates the storms that used to batter the coast and sets up a safe harbor, but in return the harbor is flooded with out-of-towners who want to play at sailing. We also see, from a distance, the suburbanization of San Francisco, which has no immediate impact on the fishermen but changes the look of their community.
Anyways. It's a cool book; the author really knows his stuff, and has a worthwhile story to tell. (Well, I shouldn't oversell that - the story is more of an elegant framework around which to weave really well-developed characters, which are the main focus.) I'm glad I gave it a read, and am looking forward to my next crack at local color in some other book.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Headland Kings
For better or worse, this may be my last backpacking trip for a while - for the first time since I started these, I don't have any particular destination in mind for a next trip, nor specific plans for a follow-up outing. It was good to end on a relative high note, though... my Point Reyes trip had gorgeous scenery and some memorable adventures, crammed into a brief extended weekend that felt rewarding while serving mostly to energize me.
It's kind of funny to see how all of the different agencies handle backpacking differently. Henry Coe is (was? more on that later) a state park; the Ohlone Wilderness is managed by the East Bay Regional Park District (Alameda and Contra Costa counties); and Point Reyes is managed by the National Park Service. The NPS also oversees Yosemite, but the two are run a bit differently, which makes sense since they are VERY different parks. Point Reyes is much smaller, but also much more accessible; someone in decent physical shape can get to pretty much any part of the park, at pretty much every time of the year. PR is much less of a wilderness experience than Yosemite, which I've actually come to appreciate: it's amazing how much you can fall in love with simple things like an outhouse after you've done without.
Anyways: Yosemite manages backpacking by setting limits on the number of hikers it allows into a trailhead at any given day, but allows those hikers to camp anywhere they want. PR has designated hike-in campgrounds, and only allows you to stay at one of those sites. Reservations can be made several months in advance. After doing research, I'd decided that Wildcat camp sounded the coolest, and called on the first day that reservations were available. Amazingly, it had already sold out by the time I called (which, admittedly, was in the early afternoon, and for Memorial Day weekend). Fortunately, I had a backup ready, and opted for Sky Camp, which is more centrally located and higher up.
The campsites are the best-equipped of any backpacking site I've been to: each comes with a picnic table, a charcoal grill, and a food-storage locker. I appreciated the locker most of all, as it meant that I could forego the bear can. (I don't think there are actual bears in PR, but there are tons of critters who have become very familiar with the food brought by humans.) Each campground has a combination of individual and group campsites, and also has an outhouse, trash and recycling receptacles, and potable drinking water. I still brought my water treatment fluid, just to be on the safe side, but was happy to not need to treat any of my water.
Of course, I camp in order to hike, not vice versa, and the hiking was excellent. On Saturday I arrived at the park a bit after nine, after a little confusion on the way in - I'd used Google Maps for directions, but had just directed to "Point Reyes Park" instead of the actual address of headquarters, and so it had directed me to a random road deep into the park. I figured out what was going wrong once I headed north from Point Reyes Station, and was able to easily turn around and return. The headquarters was fairly busy even this early in the morning, but was very well-staffed as well. I got checked in, got my permit, and bought a decent topo map (they had two for sale, I opted for the Wilderness Press one). After cinching up, I headed to camp.
There's a nicely dense and complex cluster of trails in the headquarters area, and after some reflection, I decided to take what looked like a relatively boring trail out and save the more interesting ones for my return on Monday. Starting from headquarters, I headed up the Horse Trail, which rose on a pleasant grade through fairly thick forest. This brought me to the Sky Trail, which I followed a short ways downhill to Sky Camp. The whole trip took me less than two hours, so I had plenty of time to pitch my tent and head out again before lunch. I'm not sure whether the NPS lets you request specific camp sites or not; I'd been assigned #12, which was in a pretty heavily wooded area with good coverage but no views. It would be a great spot to camp on a hot day or in inclement weather, and seemed about twice as big as most other individual camp sites. If I had the chance to go again, though, I'd try to get one of sites 3, 4, 9, 10, or 11, all of which have breathtaking views of Drake's Bay.
I'd decided that Saturday I'd focus on hiking in the area north and west of Sky, and spend Sunday in the bigger areas available south and east. From Sky I headed up towards Limantour Road. My map makes it look like the trail dead-ends there, but from trail signs I figured out that it intersected with Bayview Trail. I picked up that, which runs closely to the road for a while before breaking away. I crossed the road to pick up Inverness Ridge Trail, which has excellent views of the southern end of Tomales Bay. The trail eventually brought me to my main destination, Point Reyes Hill, the highest point in the area. Here, I was treated to the gorgeous sight of Drake's Bay, which has a particularly graceful curve. I paused at a fortuitous picnic table to eat lunch, then headed down the Bucklin Trail.
I'd originally planned to cut west toward the White Gate and get as far west as I could before turning around, but a drizzle developed that quickly turned into a steady downpour. I'd brushed off the weather reports, which had mentioned a slight chance of rain - in my experience, a slight chance of rain tends to mean no rain at all; or, even if it does rain, only a small quantity. I hadn't dressed appropriately, was getting increasingly miserable, and decided to try and cut this leg as short as I could. After reaching Muddy Hollow, I turned east, then picked up the Bayview trail to Limantour, where I retraced my steps back to camp. By the time I reached camp I was wet and soaked, so I quickly whipped up a hot meal, then dove into my tent where I shed my sopping clothes, changed into my dry spares, and burrowed into my sleeping bag. I was finally warm and comfortable, and didn't mind too much that I had several hours of daylight left; I passed the time by reading Burning Chrome and doing crosswords.
Sunday was far more successful. I headed south on Sky Trail, then continued down on Woodward Valley to the Coast Trail. The Coast Trail runs along an overlook that's raised a fair amount above the ocean, which I'm all in favor of: hiking is infinitely easier on dirt than on sand, and you get better views this way. The whole of Coast Trail is beautiful, from the stunning sight of Drake's Bay through the myriad cool rocky outcroppings to the southeast.
I bypassed several spur trails down to the beach, but did spend some extra time at Arch Rock. This is a promontory that extends a good way into the ocean, but there's also an unmarked trail that steeply descends down to the water, where (if you're brave and feel like hopping across several rocks) you can cross a stream that runs out to the ocean through a hole carved through the massive rock above. I stayed here a while, fascinated by the interplay of water: a constant stream flows into the ocean, but the inrushing tide can occasionally overtake it, reversing the flow as it pours upstream. I took some photos and a short video, then scrambled back across the rock and regained the trail.
I hadn't been sure how much time I would make on this hike - I usually count on about 3 miles per hour for a "normal" hike, and about 2 miles per hour when backpacking; on this day I was only carrying my small daypack, but I was also planning on being out for about twelve hours, and taking plenty of time for pictures. I reached Wildcat a bit after noon, and decided that this would make a good point to start curving back towards home base. I spent a very brief time on the beach at Wildcat. Seriously - this park's full name is Point Reyes National Seashore, and I probably spent less time at the actual seashore than anyone else who's ever been there for three days. It was nice, but I had hiking to do!
I'd been hoping to eat lunch at Wildcat Lake, a cool lake that's surprisingly close to the ocean. It's fairly marshy and overgrown, though, so I continued heading north. I passed through Old Out Road, then decided to take the no-bikes-allowed Alamea Trail the rest of the way up. Big mistake! Yesterday's rain had turned the road into a ruin, totally muddy, unpleasant, and vile. It was the most miserable hour of my entire trip. I finally re-emerged on the Ridge Trail and then picked up Stewart Road to Firtop, which doesn't have any views but does have a nice meadow where I finally ate a belated lunch.
I completed a loop by heading north a bit more, then picking up Greenpicker Trail to swing west and south. This brought me to the Glen Camp trail. All told, I hiked through three of the four backpackers camps on Sunday, and came within less than half a mile of the Coast Camp as well. Glen Camp was probably my least favorite of the bunch: not bad, but it didn't have the amazing views of Sky or the ocean proximity of Wildcat.
After reaching Bear Valley Trail, I continued straight on to Baldy Trail, which had a really fun and steady rise up from the canyon to the ridge. It was getting late in the afternoon, but I must have caught a second wind, because the elevation just melted away from me. Baldy connected me with Sky Trail, where I played footsy with a large and loud group of hikers until I turned on enough gas to leave them permanently behind. I continued on Sky Trail all the way back to camp, where I celebrated with another hot meal, some quiet reflection, and finishing the last short story in Burning Chrome.
Monday, Memorial Day, ended up being somewhat abbreviated. I woke up around six, struck camp, finished breakfast with the last of my remaining fuel, then headed out. I took Sky Trail south to the Z Ranch Trail, then headed towards Mount Wittenberg. I stashed my pack behind a tree before the final ascent, but I needn't have bothered, as it's actually quite gentle. Wittenberg doesn't really have any views, either, but it does have a nice, rambling top with a whole set of looping trails that cut through forest and meadow.
After wrapping up, I simply followed Mount Wittenberg Trail back down to Bear Valley Trail, where it was a short jaunt to the headquarters, my car, and ultimately home.
I think that with Point Reyes, I have now done pretty much all of the backpacking that's available close to the Bay Area. Henry Coe remains my favorite of the bunch, for its remoteness and serenity as much as for its beauty. The State of California is shutting down that park, which I think is a travesty bordering on an outrage - it's depressing that our legislature has so little control over its own budget (thanks to, um, we the voters) that the only influence it can have is through cutting stuff that nobody wants to see cut. Coe is a treasure, and a vital resource for the fast-paced, high-tech world of Silicon Valley, and I really hope that creative minds in our government can help find a way to keep it alive. Ohlone Wilderness was good too, but far more limited, with really only a single through-trail giving a backpacking experience; I don't really have any desire to do it again, unless it's to experience the same thing in a different season. I suppose there is backpacking along the Skyline-to-the-Sea trail, but that only really works as a one-way trip, and doesn't seem worth the effort, especially since I've hiked all of it in segments before. I can definitely imagine coming back to Point Reyes at some time in the future; there are tons of hikes I could do as full day trips, plus I could profitably enjoy a three-day backpacking trip based out of Wildcat, which is close to a lot of territory that I never got around to exploring. And, of course, there are lots of great parks within a day's drive of the bay area - I would love to return to Yosemite sometime, probably focusing more on the high Sierra territory; I also would like to experience some of the other parks in the Sierras, like Hetch Hetchy; or checking out any of the myriad National Forests in northern and central California. I don't know when, but I do hope that there's more such trips in my future.
It's kind of funny to see how all of the different agencies handle backpacking differently. Henry Coe is (was? more on that later) a state park; the Ohlone Wilderness is managed by the East Bay Regional Park District (Alameda and Contra Costa counties); and Point Reyes is managed by the National Park Service. The NPS also oversees Yosemite, but the two are run a bit differently, which makes sense since they are VERY different parks. Point Reyes is much smaller, but also much more accessible; someone in decent physical shape can get to pretty much any part of the park, at pretty much every time of the year. PR is much less of a wilderness experience than Yosemite, which I've actually come to appreciate: it's amazing how much you can fall in love with simple things like an outhouse after you've done without.
Anyways: Yosemite manages backpacking by setting limits on the number of hikers it allows into a trailhead at any given day, but allows those hikers to camp anywhere they want. PR has designated hike-in campgrounds, and only allows you to stay at one of those sites. Reservations can be made several months in advance. After doing research, I'd decided that Wildcat camp sounded the coolest, and called on the first day that reservations were available. Amazingly, it had already sold out by the time I called (which, admittedly, was in the early afternoon, and for Memorial Day weekend). Fortunately, I had a backup ready, and opted for Sky Camp, which is more centrally located and higher up.
The campsites are the best-equipped of any backpacking site I've been to: each comes with a picnic table, a charcoal grill, and a food-storage locker. I appreciated the locker most of all, as it meant that I could forego the bear can. (I don't think there are actual bears in PR, but there are tons of critters who have become very familiar with the food brought by humans.) Each campground has a combination of individual and group campsites, and also has an outhouse, trash and recycling receptacles, and potable drinking water. I still brought my water treatment fluid, just to be on the safe side, but was happy to not need to treat any of my water.
Of course, I camp in order to hike, not vice versa, and the hiking was excellent. On Saturday I arrived at the park a bit after nine, after a little confusion on the way in - I'd used Google Maps for directions, but had just directed to "Point Reyes Park" instead of the actual address of headquarters, and so it had directed me to a random road deep into the park. I figured out what was going wrong once I headed north from Point Reyes Station, and was able to easily turn around and return. The headquarters was fairly busy even this early in the morning, but was very well-staffed as well. I got checked in, got my permit, and bought a decent topo map (they had two for sale, I opted for the Wilderness Press one). After cinching up, I headed to camp.
There's a nicely dense and complex cluster of trails in the headquarters area, and after some reflection, I decided to take what looked like a relatively boring trail out and save the more interesting ones for my return on Monday. Starting from headquarters, I headed up the Horse Trail, which rose on a pleasant grade through fairly thick forest. This brought me to the Sky Trail, which I followed a short ways downhill to Sky Camp. The whole trip took me less than two hours, so I had plenty of time to pitch my tent and head out again before lunch. I'm not sure whether the NPS lets you request specific camp sites or not; I'd been assigned #12, which was in a pretty heavily wooded area with good coverage but no views. It would be a great spot to camp on a hot day or in inclement weather, and seemed about twice as big as most other individual camp sites. If I had the chance to go again, though, I'd try to get one of sites 3, 4, 9, 10, or 11, all of which have breathtaking views of Drake's Bay.
I'd decided that Saturday I'd focus on hiking in the area north and west of Sky, and spend Sunday in the bigger areas available south and east. From Sky I headed up towards Limantour Road. My map makes it look like the trail dead-ends there, but from trail signs I figured out that it intersected with Bayview Trail. I picked up that, which runs closely to the road for a while before breaking away. I crossed the road to pick up Inverness Ridge Trail, which has excellent views of the southern end of Tomales Bay. The trail eventually brought me to my main destination, Point Reyes Hill, the highest point in the area. Here, I was treated to the gorgeous sight of Drake's Bay, which has a particularly graceful curve. I paused at a fortuitous picnic table to eat lunch, then headed down the Bucklin Trail.
I'd originally planned to cut west toward the White Gate and get as far west as I could before turning around, but a drizzle developed that quickly turned into a steady downpour. I'd brushed off the weather reports, which had mentioned a slight chance of rain - in my experience, a slight chance of rain tends to mean no rain at all; or, even if it does rain, only a small quantity. I hadn't dressed appropriately, was getting increasingly miserable, and decided to try and cut this leg as short as I could. After reaching Muddy Hollow, I turned east, then picked up the Bayview trail to Limantour, where I retraced my steps back to camp. By the time I reached camp I was wet and soaked, so I quickly whipped up a hot meal, then dove into my tent where I shed my sopping clothes, changed into my dry spares, and burrowed into my sleeping bag. I was finally warm and comfortable, and didn't mind too much that I had several hours of daylight left; I passed the time by reading Burning Chrome and doing crosswords.
Sunday was far more successful. I headed south on Sky Trail, then continued down on Woodward Valley to the Coast Trail. The Coast Trail runs along an overlook that's raised a fair amount above the ocean, which I'm all in favor of: hiking is infinitely easier on dirt than on sand, and you get better views this way. The whole of Coast Trail is beautiful, from the stunning sight of Drake's Bay through the myriad cool rocky outcroppings to the southeast.
I bypassed several spur trails down to the beach, but did spend some extra time at Arch Rock. This is a promontory that extends a good way into the ocean, but there's also an unmarked trail that steeply descends down to the water, where (if you're brave and feel like hopping across several rocks) you can cross a stream that runs out to the ocean through a hole carved through the massive rock above. I stayed here a while, fascinated by the interplay of water: a constant stream flows into the ocean, but the inrushing tide can occasionally overtake it, reversing the flow as it pours upstream. I took some photos and a short video, then scrambled back across the rock and regained the trail.
I hadn't been sure how much time I would make on this hike - I usually count on about 3 miles per hour for a "normal" hike, and about 2 miles per hour when backpacking; on this day I was only carrying my small daypack, but I was also planning on being out for about twelve hours, and taking plenty of time for pictures. I reached Wildcat a bit after noon, and decided that this would make a good point to start curving back towards home base. I spent a very brief time on the beach at Wildcat. Seriously - this park's full name is Point Reyes National Seashore, and I probably spent less time at the actual seashore than anyone else who's ever been there for three days. It was nice, but I had hiking to do!
I'd been hoping to eat lunch at Wildcat Lake, a cool lake that's surprisingly close to the ocean. It's fairly marshy and overgrown, though, so I continued heading north. I passed through Old Out Road, then decided to take the no-bikes-allowed Alamea Trail the rest of the way up. Big mistake! Yesterday's rain had turned the road into a ruin, totally muddy, unpleasant, and vile. It was the most miserable hour of my entire trip. I finally re-emerged on the Ridge Trail and then picked up Stewart Road to Firtop, which doesn't have any views but does have a nice meadow where I finally ate a belated lunch.
I completed a loop by heading north a bit more, then picking up Greenpicker Trail to swing west and south. This brought me to the Glen Camp trail. All told, I hiked through three of the four backpackers camps on Sunday, and came within less than half a mile of the Coast Camp as well. Glen Camp was probably my least favorite of the bunch: not bad, but it didn't have the amazing views of Sky or the ocean proximity of Wildcat.
After reaching Bear Valley Trail, I continued straight on to Baldy Trail, which had a really fun and steady rise up from the canyon to the ridge. It was getting late in the afternoon, but I must have caught a second wind, because the elevation just melted away from me. Baldy connected me with Sky Trail, where I played footsy with a large and loud group of hikers until I turned on enough gas to leave them permanently behind. I continued on Sky Trail all the way back to camp, where I celebrated with another hot meal, some quiet reflection, and finishing the last short story in Burning Chrome.
Monday, Memorial Day, ended up being somewhat abbreviated. I woke up around six, struck camp, finished breakfast with the last of my remaining fuel, then headed out. I took Sky Trail south to the Z Ranch Trail, then headed towards Mount Wittenberg. I stashed my pack behind a tree before the final ascent, but I needn't have bothered, as it's actually quite gentle. Wittenberg doesn't really have any views, either, but it does have a nice, rambling top with a whole set of looping trails that cut through forest and meadow.
After wrapping up, I simply followed Mount Wittenberg Trail back down to Bear Valley Trail, where it was a short jaunt to the headquarters, my car, and ultimately home.
I think that with Point Reyes, I have now done pretty much all of the backpacking that's available close to the Bay Area. Henry Coe remains my favorite of the bunch, for its remoteness and serenity as much as for its beauty. The State of California is shutting down that park, which I think is a travesty bordering on an outrage - it's depressing that our legislature has so little control over its own budget (thanks to, um, we the voters) that the only influence it can have is through cutting stuff that nobody wants to see cut. Coe is a treasure, and a vital resource for the fast-paced, high-tech world of Silicon Valley, and I really hope that creative minds in our government can help find a way to keep it alive. Ohlone Wilderness was good too, but far more limited, with really only a single through-trail giving a backpacking experience; I don't really have any desire to do it again, unless it's to experience the same thing in a different season. I suppose there is backpacking along the Skyline-to-the-Sea trail, but that only really works as a one-way trip, and doesn't seem worth the effort, especially since I've hiked all of it in segments before. I can definitely imagine coming back to Point Reyes at some time in the future; there are tons of hikes I could do as full day trips, plus I could profitably enjoy a three-day backpacking trip based out of Wildcat, which is close to a lot of territory that I never got around to exploring. And, of course, there are lots of great parks within a day's drive of the bay area - I would love to return to Yosemite sometime, probably focusing more on the high Sierra territory; I also would like to experience some of the other parks in the Sierras, like Hetch Hetchy; or checking out any of the myriad National Forests in northern and central California. I don't know when, but I do hope that there's more such trips in my future.
Saturday, June 04, 2011
Adore
I came to know Anthony Bourdain through a stream of amusing anecdotes provided by my brother Pat, who is a superb foodie and plugged into the world of chefs, regional cuisine rivalries and current food trends. I've never seen Bourdain's show, but was mesmerized by a recording of a Google Talk he gave that provided a voice to the great stories I'd already heard. He's brutally honest, funny, sets high standards for others and higher standards for himself. He's a proud New Yorker who begrudgingly concedes the superiority of the Bay Area's ingredient supply while still making a strong case for the supremacy of New York chefs.
I picked up "A Cook's Tour," which is a sort of travel journal that recounts Bourdain's yearlong trip around the world, "in search of the perfect meal." Bourdain being Bourdain, he states up front that this was a fairly artificial endeavor: he'd hoodwinked the Food Network into paying for it, in exchange for having their cameramen follow him around and film everything. (Bourdain is a notorious basher of the Food Network in general, and its celebrity "chefs" in particular, which makes this all the more funny.) Still, the trip is authentic in that he is visiting real chefs and home cooks making real food in their traditional ways.
While food is a very important concern of this book, I was surprised to see that it often shared equal billing with other elements of the meals. Any given experience Bourdain describes usually includes four components: food, alcohol, location, and company. All of these combine to make an experience wonderful or terrible. He's up-front about how, after he's drunk a lot of beer, the food starts tasting much better and his companions seem more charming and funny. This feels real and believable to me - the emotional high of a meal is supported by everything else going on, and I would much rather be eating a slightly dry turkey with my extended family for a holiday meal at the homestead than a perfectly moist turkey by myself at home - but it was impressive that a professional chef would make the case that really amazing food isn't everything.
Many of the stories Bourdain tells are mouth-watering, making me want to follow in his footsteps and try the same thing. He returns again and again to his tale of Vietnam, which seems to be constantly serving up wonderfully prepared meals in friendly environments. His tale of a kaiseki meal at a Japanese ryookan made me mourn the fact that that was one meal I didn't get to experience during my trip there. The emotional highlight for me came in the penultimate chapter of the book, when Bourdain and three fellow famous chefs attend a meal at Thomas Keller's French Laundry. Bourdain wrote this book before Per Se opened up, and I can imagine the mixture of awe, anticipation, and outrage he feels at Keller coming east.
Other trips are more viscerally exciting because of what's happening off the table. Bourdain seems to be comfortable consorting with criminal elements, corrupt government officials, and slightly unhinged expats. We hear about his experiences under the wing of the mafiya in Russia; a harrowing trip up the river and over landmined roads in Cambodia; listening to partisans singing in Basque territory.
Sometimes there's a bit of a Fear Factor element, when Bourdain tries something that seems gross or horrifying. Often this is because he's heard that it's good; other times, his handlers are convinced that it'll make compelling television. The book opens with a pig feast in Portugal, which starts when the family of one of his kitchen chefs slaughters a huge pig. He describes the slaughter in some detail, forcing us to make the connection between the wheezing animal we see nibbling slop and the browned flesh that rests on our plates. During his visit to Morocco, he goes to great lengths to obtain a goat so he can have someone cook and serve him its testicles: according to Bourdain, they are delicious. Others go poorly; the crew forces him to eat a pet iguana, which unsurprisingly tastes horrible.
And then there are the meals that are truly awful, or, worse, boring and bland. Bourdain doesn't pull any punches here out of respect or deference; if he thinks something tastes bad, he'll say say so, and say why. I think one of his best lines in the book comes when he describes natto as the Vegemite of Japan: all the natives love it, and foreigners will never be able to understand why. He returns to France to try and recreate beloved childhood memories, but the weather is awful, and all the food he tries seems tired and uninspired, until he eats some old seafood that actually tries to kill him.
He reserves some of his greatest ire for trends in Western cuisine, particularly in his late chapters on Britain and the US. He hates the fact that he can't smoke in restaurants any more. He thinks that our trend towards improving food safety is actually making things worse: the increasing regulations are driving small producers out of business, which is leading to a few large and powerful companies creating monocultures, which is why there's so much salmonella in our chicken. He hates how "Mexican" food has not only become bastardized, but also spread to London and beyond, so the same boring glop follows you everywhere. In the same chapter where he lyrically sings the praises of the French Laundry, he unleashes a sustained and funny tirade against vegans, attacking their overall philosophy (particularly the "meat is murder" viewpoint), but then unleashing the worst insult of all: they (the Berkeley vegans Bourdain visited) can't cook well.
After reading this, I can see well why Bourdain is such a celebrity in the food world. I'm not exactly sure what he's up to these days, but I hope to go back and check out some of his earlier works and adventures... he's an interesting dude, and I'm glad he's going first to pave the way for the rest of us.
I picked up "A Cook's Tour," which is a sort of travel journal that recounts Bourdain's yearlong trip around the world, "in search of the perfect meal." Bourdain being Bourdain, he states up front that this was a fairly artificial endeavor: he'd hoodwinked the Food Network into paying for it, in exchange for having their cameramen follow him around and film everything. (Bourdain is a notorious basher of the Food Network in general, and its celebrity "chefs" in particular, which makes this all the more funny.) Still, the trip is authentic in that he is visiting real chefs and home cooks making real food in their traditional ways.
While food is a very important concern of this book, I was surprised to see that it often shared equal billing with other elements of the meals. Any given experience Bourdain describes usually includes four components: food, alcohol, location, and company. All of these combine to make an experience wonderful or terrible. He's up-front about how, after he's drunk a lot of beer, the food starts tasting much better and his companions seem more charming and funny. This feels real and believable to me - the emotional high of a meal is supported by everything else going on, and I would much rather be eating a slightly dry turkey with my extended family for a holiday meal at the homestead than a perfectly moist turkey by myself at home - but it was impressive that a professional chef would make the case that really amazing food isn't everything.
Many of the stories Bourdain tells are mouth-watering, making me want to follow in his footsteps and try the same thing. He returns again and again to his tale of Vietnam, which seems to be constantly serving up wonderfully prepared meals in friendly environments. His tale of a kaiseki meal at a Japanese ryookan made me mourn the fact that that was one meal I didn't get to experience during my trip there. The emotional highlight for me came in the penultimate chapter of the book, when Bourdain and three fellow famous chefs attend a meal at Thomas Keller's French Laundry. Bourdain wrote this book before Per Se opened up, and I can imagine the mixture of awe, anticipation, and outrage he feels at Keller coming east.
Other trips are more viscerally exciting because of what's happening off the table. Bourdain seems to be comfortable consorting with criminal elements, corrupt government officials, and slightly unhinged expats. We hear about his experiences under the wing of the mafiya in Russia; a harrowing trip up the river and over landmined roads in Cambodia; listening to partisans singing in Basque territory.
Sometimes there's a bit of a Fear Factor element, when Bourdain tries something that seems gross or horrifying. Often this is because he's heard that it's good; other times, his handlers are convinced that it'll make compelling television. The book opens with a pig feast in Portugal, which starts when the family of one of his kitchen chefs slaughters a huge pig. He describes the slaughter in some detail, forcing us to make the connection between the wheezing animal we see nibbling slop and the browned flesh that rests on our plates. During his visit to Morocco, he goes to great lengths to obtain a goat so he can have someone cook and serve him its testicles: according to Bourdain, they are delicious. Others go poorly; the crew forces him to eat a pet iguana, which unsurprisingly tastes horrible.
And then there are the meals that are truly awful, or, worse, boring and bland. Bourdain doesn't pull any punches here out of respect or deference; if he thinks something tastes bad, he'll say say so, and say why. I think one of his best lines in the book comes when he describes natto as the Vegemite of Japan: all the natives love it, and foreigners will never be able to understand why. He returns to France to try and recreate beloved childhood memories, but the weather is awful, and all the food he tries seems tired and uninspired, until he eats some old seafood that actually tries to kill him.
He reserves some of his greatest ire for trends in Western cuisine, particularly in his late chapters on Britain and the US. He hates the fact that he can't smoke in restaurants any more. He thinks that our trend towards improving food safety is actually making things worse: the increasing regulations are driving small producers out of business, which is leading to a few large and powerful companies creating monocultures, which is why there's so much salmonella in our chicken. He hates how "Mexican" food has not only become bastardized, but also spread to London and beyond, so the same boring glop follows you everywhere. In the same chapter where he lyrically sings the praises of the French Laundry, he unleashes a sustained and funny tirade against vegans, attacking their overall philosophy (particularly the "meat is murder" viewpoint), but then unleashing the worst insult of all: they (the Berkeley vegans Bourdain visited) can't cook well.
After reading this, I can see well why Bourdain is such a celebrity in the food world. I'm not exactly sure what he's up to these days, but I hope to go back and check out some of his earlier works and adventures... he's an interesting dude, and I'm glad he's going first to pave the way for the rest of us.
Invocation
On Wednesday I got to see Invocation, the first part of the new dance Bare Bones Crow, which was created and performed by my relative Vangie King. (I'm not totally sure what the proper term is for our relation. She's my father's cousin; does that make us first cousins once removed?) She's been dancing for most of her life, but this was the first chance I'd had to see her, and it was a great experience.
On an earlier visit with Vangie when my parents were in town, she had described the idea behind this new piece. It evokes a creature who is buried far underground; the creature awakes, and the dance shows its journey. Vangie collaborated with a sound designer to create the aural landscape for the dance.
Vangie's dance was included in the "raw & uncut" showcase at The Garage, a cool performance space in SOMA. The Garage sponsors a resident workshop program that allows artists to spend time developing new creations, and many of the dances in this showcase were from residents at various stages of their program.
The Garage reminded me a lot of some of the smaller venues in Chicago where I've seen Pat perform. Really intimate, very immediate, usually with one person who's clearly running all aspects of the venue. Here, people gave donations for their entrance ($10-$20 sliding scale; I'd pre-paid on Brown Paper Tickets, but will probably do it in person the next time I come), received programs (simple and effective folded sheets of paper), and could choose from various beverages to purchase. The manager let us all know the window of time when the restroom was open - since it's on the opposite side of the stage as the seating, it isn't exactly accessible during performances. Folks mingled or lingered for a while, then we headed in and started the show.
The first piece, "No Self," primarily featured a single dancer; another woman prowled around at intervals and provided live lighting support, and a man played a fairly subdued string instrument for live music. The woman, wearing a very long dress, was standing on a pedestal hidden under her dress, giving the illusion of enormous height. The piece began with her coming to life, and slowly coming to understand and control her body. (The moment when she first smiles was both hilarious and disturbing.) Intellectually, I knew that I was watching a person standing on a pedestal, but throughout the performance it felt like I was watching a single, tall, increasingly graceful body. Eventually she came down and moved around the stage. As with the other dances, there was fairly minimal speech, but what little is there seems shocking. The words towards the end go something like, "You want to live forever? I wish to die!" The piece was intriguing and seemed to end on a somewhat bittersweet note.
Next up came Vangie's piece. She performs as the creature - I presume the Bare Bones Crow of the title - who abruptly awakens in an enclosed space deep underground. The creature is curious, frightened, exploring its surroundings and trying to understand what's happening. The creature also seems quite powerful, but perhaps not aware of it. Vangie's colleague Brenda had designed the sound for the piece and "performed" it live via her Macbook. Some of this was ambient noise and music, but there were also amazing sound effects that really magnified Vangie's movements: crackling rocks, spooky-sounding drippy slime, hurried footsteps, and more. (Unfortunately, the audio system got a bit wonky and it was sometimes hard to separate the sound from the hissing speakers. I'm ignorant enough about modern dance that I couldn't tell if it was a technical problem or a sign of avant-garde composition!) Vangie's movements were amazing to watch - often stately, deliberate, and powerfully focused. She, too, only occasionally spoke, and her few words captured the stress of the creature.
After a first attempt at a piece that was aborted due to the increasingly feisty speakers, we took an early intermission, followed by a piece by two male dancers. One was a native American Indian (who started off wearing extremely bright red high heels) with a larger build, another looked like a regular white guy with a slighter build. This dance seemed to be more purely about movement; or at least, it didn't seem to be telling a story as explicitly as the first two had. It was also quite funny, although I wasn't sure until fairly late on whether it was OK to laugh.
"Maintain Class" also had flashes of humor. This dance featured two incredibly attractive young women, who start the dance reading newspapers in chairs. The dance moves through a sequence of phases, each set to its own song (including some really excellent electronic pieces) or silence. Sometimes the women seem to be cooperating; other times competing; at one point they writhe in pain on the ground, at another they seem to be playing a cruel version of the trust exercise, at others they dance with one another. I think the emotional center of the piece comes when the two very slowly rotate in smooth 360-degree pivots, with each turn showing a new face to the audience.
After an earlier aborted attempt, the second shot at "Worn on the Bottom" had better cooperation from the music. Combining trends from the first two and two previous performances, this one was both disturbing and funny. The dancer maintained strong eye contact with the audience throughout her performance. Dressed in a pure white girlish dress, she starts out flipping through the pages of a large book, and begins to dance along to the music she hears. Some of the movements become increasingly sexual, which feels incongruous and disturbing as the dance continues. Her moves repeat and evolve throughout the dance, giving you ample opportunity to reflect on them. (I'm just now realizing, incidentally, that print is a HORRIBLE medium for describing a dance. It would be better if I had more of a dance vocabulary; I apologize for the hash I'm making of all this.) There was one particular sequence of gestures she made which fascinated me for reasons I still don't understand: starting with both arms raised just above her head, she pauses for a moment, then moves her right arm through a swift set of even horizontal steps away from her left arm; at the end, she moves her right hand up and forward, toward the audience, twisting just a tiny bit, as if she were reaching for something far away or turning a key in a lock. Like I said, I don't know why that movement resonated with me, but it's still haunting me days later.
The evening ended with "*cari's tiny circus*", which was accurately billed as four "almost serious dances." The first term that comes to mind to describe this one is "prop dancing," though that doesn't begin to do justice to it. Each of the four dances had some physical object or set of objects on stage. For the first one, she came out in a deliberately gaudy and poofy ballerina dress, and plopped herself down in, um, a bucket. And then she danced in the bucket. It was pretty unreal, incredibly talented, and highly amusing. Another dance took place entirely on a stool, where she somehow managed to maintain her balance while dancing on the top, on the side rungs, swung out sideways, etc. My favorite one featured a variety of pots and pans spread across the stage: she somehow managed to dance through a skillet, dutch oven, stockpot, etc., without ever touching the floor. It was a lot of fun, and the performance felt like a celebration at the pure joy and fun of controlling a talented body.
So, my first introduction to San Francisco dance was a great one. It was a lot of fun to see Vangie perform, and also fun to see it in this context, where I could try and pick up a rudimentary education about what else is going on in modern dance. I know I'll never be an expert at this particular art form, but I like what I've seen so far.
On an earlier visit with Vangie when my parents were in town, she had described the idea behind this new piece. It evokes a creature who is buried far underground; the creature awakes, and the dance shows its journey. Vangie collaborated with a sound designer to create the aural landscape for the dance.
Vangie's dance was included in the "raw & uncut" showcase at The Garage, a cool performance space in SOMA. The Garage sponsors a resident workshop program that allows artists to spend time developing new creations, and many of the dances in this showcase were from residents at various stages of their program.
The Garage reminded me a lot of some of the smaller venues in Chicago where I've seen Pat perform. Really intimate, very immediate, usually with one person who's clearly running all aspects of the venue. Here, people gave donations for their entrance ($10-$20 sliding scale; I'd pre-paid on Brown Paper Tickets, but will probably do it in person the next time I come), received programs (simple and effective folded sheets of paper), and could choose from various beverages to purchase. The manager let us all know the window of time when the restroom was open - since it's on the opposite side of the stage as the seating, it isn't exactly accessible during performances. Folks mingled or lingered for a while, then we headed in and started the show.
The first piece, "No Self," primarily featured a single dancer; another woman prowled around at intervals and provided live lighting support, and a man played a fairly subdued string instrument for live music. The woman, wearing a very long dress, was standing on a pedestal hidden under her dress, giving the illusion of enormous height. The piece began with her coming to life, and slowly coming to understand and control her body. (The moment when she first smiles was both hilarious and disturbing.) Intellectually, I knew that I was watching a person standing on a pedestal, but throughout the performance it felt like I was watching a single, tall, increasingly graceful body. Eventually she came down and moved around the stage. As with the other dances, there was fairly minimal speech, but what little is there seems shocking. The words towards the end go something like, "You want to live forever? I wish to die!" The piece was intriguing and seemed to end on a somewhat bittersweet note.
Next up came Vangie's piece. She performs as the creature - I presume the Bare Bones Crow of the title - who abruptly awakens in an enclosed space deep underground. The creature is curious, frightened, exploring its surroundings and trying to understand what's happening. The creature also seems quite powerful, but perhaps not aware of it. Vangie's colleague Brenda had designed the sound for the piece and "performed" it live via her Macbook. Some of this was ambient noise and music, but there were also amazing sound effects that really magnified Vangie's movements: crackling rocks, spooky-sounding drippy slime, hurried footsteps, and more. (Unfortunately, the audio system got a bit wonky and it was sometimes hard to separate the sound from the hissing speakers. I'm ignorant enough about modern dance that I couldn't tell if it was a technical problem or a sign of avant-garde composition!) Vangie's movements were amazing to watch - often stately, deliberate, and powerfully focused. She, too, only occasionally spoke, and her few words captured the stress of the creature.
After a first attempt at a piece that was aborted due to the increasingly feisty speakers, we took an early intermission, followed by a piece by two male dancers. One was a native American Indian (who started off wearing extremely bright red high heels) with a larger build, another looked like a regular white guy with a slighter build. This dance seemed to be more purely about movement; or at least, it didn't seem to be telling a story as explicitly as the first two had. It was also quite funny, although I wasn't sure until fairly late on whether it was OK to laugh.
"Maintain Class" also had flashes of humor. This dance featured two incredibly attractive young women, who start the dance reading newspapers in chairs. The dance moves through a sequence of phases, each set to its own song (including some really excellent electronic pieces) or silence. Sometimes the women seem to be cooperating; other times competing; at one point they writhe in pain on the ground, at another they seem to be playing a cruel version of the trust exercise, at others they dance with one another. I think the emotional center of the piece comes when the two very slowly rotate in smooth 360-degree pivots, with each turn showing a new face to the audience.
After an earlier aborted attempt, the second shot at "Worn on the Bottom" had better cooperation from the music. Combining trends from the first two and two previous performances, this one was both disturbing and funny. The dancer maintained strong eye contact with the audience throughout her performance. Dressed in a pure white girlish dress, she starts out flipping through the pages of a large book, and begins to dance along to the music she hears. Some of the movements become increasingly sexual, which feels incongruous and disturbing as the dance continues. Her moves repeat and evolve throughout the dance, giving you ample opportunity to reflect on them. (I'm just now realizing, incidentally, that print is a HORRIBLE medium for describing a dance. It would be better if I had more of a dance vocabulary; I apologize for the hash I'm making of all this.) There was one particular sequence of gestures she made which fascinated me for reasons I still don't understand: starting with both arms raised just above her head, she pauses for a moment, then moves her right arm through a swift set of even horizontal steps away from her left arm; at the end, she moves her right hand up and forward, toward the audience, twisting just a tiny bit, as if she were reaching for something far away or turning a key in a lock. Like I said, I don't know why that movement resonated with me, but it's still haunting me days later.
The evening ended with "*cari's tiny circus*", which was accurately billed as four "almost serious dances." The first term that comes to mind to describe this one is "prop dancing," though that doesn't begin to do justice to it. Each of the four dances had some physical object or set of objects on stage. For the first one, she came out in a deliberately gaudy and poofy ballerina dress, and plopped herself down in, um, a bucket. And then she danced in the bucket. It was pretty unreal, incredibly talented, and highly amusing. Another dance took place entirely on a stool, where she somehow managed to maintain her balance while dancing on the top, on the side rungs, swung out sideways, etc. My favorite one featured a variety of pots and pans spread across the stage: she somehow managed to dance through a skillet, dutch oven, stockpot, etc., without ever touching the floor. It was a lot of fun, and the performance felt like a celebration at the pure joy and fun of controlling a talented body.
So, my first introduction to San Francisco dance was a great one. It was a lot of fun to see Vangie perform, and also fun to see it in this context, where I could try and pick up a rudimentary education about what else is going on in modern dance. I know I'll never be an expert at this particular art form, but I like what I've seen so far.
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