Tag: America

Varying interest

We’re not all fascinated by the same thing. What interests me could be mundane and unworthy of a second look to someone else. This was only too common while I was in California. It was my first time in the US—a first world country—and I was gawking at everything I saw. Sure, I had seen fancy buildings before, but it still seemed magnificent to me that the city of San Francisco housed such constructions that its residents looked at every day without seeing it. Walking down the streets that day, I saw countless jaw-dropping sights that were just pedestrian to the locals.

pedastrian

More sights at the Golden Gate Park

The Stow Lake in the Golden Gate Park

In a previous post, I shared my observations about the Botanical Garden and the Japanese Tea Garden in the Golden Gate Park.

By the time I left the Japanese Tea Garden, despite covering so much ground, I hadn’t even scratched the surface. I realised with mild apprehension that I’d never see the remainder of the gigantic Golden Gate Park. I walked on nevertheless.

Following the maps installed every few feet in the park, I walked towards the Stow Lake. The park’s size amazed me as as I realised that it could be a tiny town by itself. With well-paved roads, car traffic, bicycle lanes, traffic lights, and pedestrian walkways the park had everything necessary for human habitation. And although a huge tourist attraction, the park is also a part of local lifestyle.

Joggers and walkers passed me at every turn, flashing a smile and counting a mile. Tennis courts echoed with players keeping scores: “love all, ya’ll”. Dogs brought their humans for a walk in the park. These locals went about their everyday routine unperturbed by backpackers or touring groups. That’s the true worth of the park—not only is it a national tourist magnet, but it’s also the life of the Bay area’s residents.

When I arrived at Stow Lake, I noticed a path leading upwards. unsure of what I’d find there, I followed the path. After walking what seemed uphill for about 10 minutes, I came to a small clearing. It seemed like a flat surface, but also with a path leading further up.

A park attendant was gathering up water hoses while responding to another gentleman holding a map. I approached the two men and asked where the hell I was. The park attendant smiled, informing me that I stood on an island on the lake. Ha, I hadn’t even realised it. If I follow the trail uphill, he said, I’d come to the top of the Strawberry Hill.

That hill wasn’t on any map. The island was, but I had no idea that the island was indeed a hill, and had such an intriguing name. I reached the top.

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It was a beautiful sight: I stood on the rugged edges of the hill and on one side, the lake spanned below me. The other side faced more hills and rocks. Unlike anything suggestive of the name, the Strawberry Hill was brown and barren. There weren’t many plants on it, but it seemed a wonderful picnic spot. Families and friends had hiked all the way up the hill for a quiet lunch. Tables lined one corner of the hill, hosting picnicking families. A father and daughter sat on rock stumps looking through photographs in their camera. As a gentle breeze kissed my cheek, I wanted to linger for hours together.

But I was just a traveller. I had to move on.

On the way down, I came across the park attendant again. He recommended that I visit the de Young Museum and, instead of going in, going up to the observatory. The museum was pricy (I knew from research) but the observatory was free. I did not know that from research.

I asked him for directions and he questioned me in return: “Do you want to take the short route or the scenic route?”

Scenic, of course.

He directed me through the Fallen Oak Path (I’m sure he made that name up, but I like it nevertheless), past a waterfall, and down a bridge to the main street that led to the museum.

Up the observatory I went, and in a few moments, I had seen the entire park from above. The best of nature and the best of human architectural talent married to make the park what it is. For the second time that day, I wished I could stay put.

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I left because more jaw dropping sights awaited. That day I cherished the freedom of travelling. The only reason to go is to see more places, and that’s more than enough of a reason.

A visit to the Golden Gate Park

When I was in Pleasanton, my friend and travel partner took a weekend off for Chicago to meet with her friend. That gave me two whole days for myself. And what else would I do than explore the city of San Francisco?

Although I’d hit a lot of popular places the last time I was there, I missed on one important monument: The Golden Gate Park. So I went there that Saturday morning.

The moment I entered the park, a smile came on to my lips—a bunch of kids skateboarded on the street leading to the park. It was a pleasant sight, for I had never seen such effortless skateboarders on street without being afraid of getting hit by a car. In fact, it was the first time I walked without the fear of motorists.

Before going further, I calculated how much time I should spend in the park. Little did I know then how big the park is. My first stop was the Botanical Garden. As I paid for my entrance ticket, the gentleman at the counter handed me a map of the garden and informed me that the 55 acre-garden hosts plants from all over the world. My heart skipped a beat as I heard the number—there was no way I’d cover all of that within the time I had planned. With a skeptical mind, I stepped into the garden.

The entire garden was categorised by region. On my right was Australia and to my left was South America. I went by what was right by me. The deeper I went into the garden the more fascinated I became of the plants. Time came to a stand still and I no longer worried about rushing off to the next place. The scent of living, breathing, greenery convinced me to linger in its essence and absorb the goodness it emancipated.

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I walked along from region to region, stepping over Peru, walking through the Andes, and swerving around Africa. I stopped at the Redwood Forest and went round and round in search of the Moonlight Garden before realising I had already been there. Name cards lined each plant and tree but none made sense to me. I was no Botany student, and I didn’t know the medicinal values pertaining to the plants. I was, instead, a backpacker, a nature lover, a passionate greenery-seeker who was more than happy to stand amidst teak woods a hundred years old. I cherished the feeling of past, present, and future life all around me. I felt elated.

Somehow it seemed unbelievable that people would flock to such a tree abode when they could be elsewhere doing something else. What I loved most about the garden was the lack of people. Even though there were many explorers like myself, the garden was so huge that I seldom came across them. Although the Botanical Garden was meant as a place to appreciate wild in its wilderness, I realised that garden authorities had to do something for people to visit. That’s why the Botanical Garden has special clearings, tree stumps, and benches—so that people could pose with plants. Perhaps the authorities thought that would be a way to attract more visitors. At least that’s how it seemed to me.

Whether or not the tactic works, it also seemed to me a little pathetic. It’s sad that we have to resort to such measures to appreciate nature. It’s sad that there aren’t many people who’d value the wilderness for what it is. And I know for certain that most people who visit natural reserves and gardens go for the photos.

My suspicion became a conviction by the time I left the Botanical Garden and entered the Japanese Tea Garden across the street. The difference was unmistakable, and it was evident even at the price of the entrance ticket. It was only a dollar more, but as I paid I sensed that the woman at the counter was bored. It wasn’t a mark of how tough her job is, but instead, a mark of how tired she was of talking nice to tourists. When I turned to the garden, I saw an abundance of people amidst manicured plants.

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To be fair, the plants were mesmerising. But about ten minutes in the garden, I couldn’t wait to get myself out of there. Every side I turned a couple or a group posed with the shrubs. And the plants, too, seemed pruned for pictures. People rushed to reserve their spot near weird-shaped plants. Although the plants radiated a calming sensation, mingled with it came unwanted and palpable excitement that didn’t originate from me.

I’m not against photo taking, for I took plenty myself. But it’s the excess touristy behaviour that made me uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I spent over an hour walking around, musing. With far fewer people, the garden would be a wonderful spot for a quiet afternoon. Not only was it domesticated, but it was also lush. Looking at the photographs I took there, I can’t believe how charming the entire garden is. Sure, I still feel it’s commercialised but it’s also a wonder.

It’s the first time that I can’t decide whether I like a garden. In every other circumstance, I would brim with compassion. Regardless of what I felt, though, the garden is a favourite place for both locals and tourists alike. In fact, a friend living in the Bay area mentioned to me that she adored the Japanese Tea Garden—she speculated it was the weekends that drew the crowd. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps I chose the wrong day.

But my day wasn’t over yet, for I explored the Golden Gate Park further. More about all that in a part 2 of this post.

Golden Gate Bridge: An inexplicable romance

For decades now people consider the Golden Gate Bridge as one of the greatest monuments in the United States. It’s the identifying icon for every soul living in the Bay area. Not only is the Golden Gate Bridge the most photographed bridge in the world but it’s also one of the most overrated.

Yes, I said it.

Having grown up listening to so much hoopla about the bridge, there was no way I’d skip the bridge during my visit to San Francisco. Besides, a trip to the Bay area is incomplete without a lame photograph reminder of the bridge. And now that I have plenty of photos to prove I’ve been there, I’ve also acquired some knowledge about the Golden Gate Bridge that’s made it less impressive in my mind.

Golden Gate Bridge
The Golden Gate Bridge
To be clear, I don’t hate the bridge. And no, I didn’t hear some grotesque story about the bridge’s history. But I did realise that the Golden Gate Bridge isn’t the only awe-worthy construction in the city. In fact, there are more attractions in San Francisco than people give it credit for. Speaking of bridges, though, there’s the Bay Bridge.

When I first saw the Bay Bridge, I was still high above the sea level. I stared down at the bridge through the window in my flight. From up there, I, like so many other tourists before me, mistook the Bay Bridge to be the Golden Gate Bridge. After all, a typical misinformed tourist to San Francisco only hears about the towering Golden Gate Bridge that they have to see. My neighbour in the flight explained my blunder to me, and to pacify me, he also commented I shouldn’t feel bad because so many people make the same mistake as I. That only made me feel smaller.

Bay Bridge
The Bay Bridge
Even when I trudged to the Coit Tower about a week later, I saw the Bay Bridge more times than I did the Golden Gate Bridge. It was so massive that it popped up at every clearing. The Golden Gate Bridge, on the other hand, was shrouded in mist.

The more I learnt about the Bay Bridge, the more I felt bad for the injustice we’ve inflicted upon it. The bridge is the direct road running between the cities of San Francisco and Oakland. It’s a two-deck bridge that carries upto 260,000 vehicles a day, and was opened in 1936—about 6 months before the Golden Gate Bridge.

The Bay Bridge’s international orange-coloured rival, on the other hand, has always been the perfect spot for tourists and suicidal folks alike. And the fact that the mist from the ocean’s heat hides most of the bridge from view is only an additional attractive feature.

I won’t deny that the Golden Gate Bridge is beautiful. I will look at it all day if I could. But I will also look at the Bay Bridge all day. If I had to choose, I’d choose the Bay Bridge just because it’s more interesting. It’s interesting how much we humans under appreciate it despite the fact that it’s as deserving as the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s much like an under valued older son in a family of two boys.

To the first world

About a month ago, I boarded an aircraft heading westward. I had to fly to the United States of America to participate in an event for work. It was a three-week official trip, but I had decided to extend it by another week, making it a solo adventure.

When I walked town to the gates at the airport on August 22, I had no idea what to expect except a twenty-hour gruelling plane journey to the other side of the world. Friends had already scared me with stories of boredom, bad food, crankiness, and—worst of all—jet lag. Despite all of this, though, I was excited beyond myself. I’m not the kind of person who’d spend so much money to travel to the US. So though this opportunity came by me unexpected, I was determined to make the most out of it.

The first thing that hit me hard when I landed was how long the journey had been. I had been warned, yes, but even so, the last couple of hours in the aircraft had felt the longest.  In hindsight, however, it was fun. I liked the food, I liked the service, I liked the fact that I had a seat by the window, and could look out at the clouds below us any time I wanted. Overall, it was comfortable flight and there was nothing I could complain about. I’d say Emirates is a good airlines, in case you’re looking for options.

On air to SFO

Once I had overcome the mental exhaustion of the flight’s duration, I had to face the next big thing: immigration, customs, and baggage claim. It’s the least romantic part of any journey. The questions weren’t bad—but the waiting was horrible. It’s surprising how after waiting inside a plane for 20 hours, how hard it was for me to wait for an hour longer to claim our baggages. Funny, now. Hell, then.

When all was done and cleared, we (a party of five colleagues) headed out of the airport into the chilly breeze of San Francisco. We booked a cab and as we drove through the city towards Dublin, Pleasanton, the reality of the first world hit me hard. Unnoticeable to me were the streets. Six lanes of freeway (or highway as we call it in India) was massive for someone who’s seen only four lanes of it. And it seemed sensible, too, to have six lanes because the number of vehicles and the sizes of private ownership were much larger than any I had seen or imagined.

Unlike in India, though, the traffic moved. Perhaps it was the big streets, but our cab didn’t remain stagnant for more than a couple minutes at a time. We spent about 45 minutes in traffic—traffic that was more pleasant than the ones at home. We landed at 3 pm, but by the time we reached our hotel, it was 6 already. We checked in and checked out our rooms. Mine was bigger than what I needed, but it was quite evident from first glance that I’d have a wonderful stay.

Still trying to get my head around the largeness of everything around me, I cleaned up, because we should meet work friends who had arrived earlier for dinner. When I looked through my window, it was bright outside that I had to double check my phone. It looked like four o’clock in the afternoon, but it was seven already. I had to sit myself down to comprehend the weirdness of nature. The sun still wasn’t sure whether it wanted to set.

And while I stared at its dying embers, I received a message saying restaurants would soon close. But it’s only 8! I yelled inside my head. The sky had become darker while I left the room and joined my colleagues at the reception of the hotel. I wasn’t hungry but we had to get food and then sleep, because we had to head to work early next morning. One of our colleagues who had lived in the US all his life, decided to take us to a burger place—almost every other restaurant would close within the next half hour.

That was another surprise for me. Dublin, Pleasanton is a small town. And most of the population was older. There was no active nightlife, and most of the shops shut down at 9 with a a handful of exceptions closing anytime after 10. That’s not what I expected when I travelled to the US. For me, America had resembled fanciness, priciness, and unnecessary vanity. I had expected to walk into a boisterous disco-like restaurant when in fact I walked into an almost empty restaurant.

Burger Fuddruckers-

We ordered burgers—at least that wasn’t unsurprising—and grabbed ourselves some water and mustard. When my bacon and blue cheese burger arrived at my table, I had to take a deep breath before I could even digest its size. It was double the size of whatever I could eat. And that was the smallest burger in their menu.

I managed to eat it without hating myself. It did taste pretty good, after all. But even then, portion sizes in America seemed ridiculous to me. Not only did Americans eat so much food, but they also topped it off with sugar soda or sugar milkshakes.

By the end, I’d had an eventful first day in the US, and was ready to sleep.