Turtles must have sore backs.

We checked out from the La Luna inn on Lombard after waking up at 8am again.
I was really sorry to leave.
The relative luxury in the place made a nice comfort blanket.
It protected me from the worst of the early homesickness, and also seemed a safe haven from the outside world.
I love a cocoon, and I was definitely a little apprehensive about moving to the Mission district, even if it was only for 2 nights.

The jet lag has us beaten up a bit still but we slept soundly with ear plugs for a nice 8 hours.
Lombard is a busy street and the traffic starts at 6am and doesn't ease all day so the road noise is quite bad.
I was pretty hungover when I woke up.
Not puking and headachey hungover, just that cranky tired feeling that Sarah has had to put up with for so long.
I drank a lot of vodka last night to try and get drunk, but I couldn't get any sort of buzz on and fell asleep at 11:45 watching Family Guy.
Because of this goofing off last night, we had to pack our backpacks this morning before we checked out. I grabbed two coffees from the breakfast tray downstairs and packed everything up as quickly and rolled up and folded all my clothes to try and make them fit as snugly as possible in my overflowing lifepack.
I don't know how anyone can haul a big heavy backpack like mine around everywhere.
I know I don't want to do it much.
Backpacking and world travelling from hostel to hostel is something I think I could never enjoy. I don't feel like a backpacker. I'm too early-old and middle class to enjoy the grime of the city. I like to see the sights and hide from the seedier aspects of the area.
In many ways I am akin to an ageing American tourist.
I'm a bit disappointed with myself saying that, but I'm pretty sure that I will never be the kind of person who would never be comfortable roughing it.
I threw out some old clothes to make room for cigarettes and lighten the load a little bit.
My socks have gone nuclear since I got here, if Sarah smells them she might pass out. I'm used to it, and there comes a point where the smell of my socks gets so bad it's actually vaguely impressive.
Like how sometimes you can revel in the smell of your own gas.
I didn't want that smell permeating through my 65 litre bag, infecting the remainder of my clean clothes, so I was glad to see them go, and taking out a few of my heavier tee-shirts and anything I bought in Dunnes made for a much happier back when I had to throw the big bag over both shoulders.
It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to carry the laptop bag around too, but its worth it for music, and the fact that I can actually write no matter where I am.
I still can't believe how the writing is pouring out of me. I have to get everything down so quickly, to try and remember exactly what was special about this trip.
That's been bothering me lately too. This style of diary, mile a minute writing, there is no finesse to it. I can't rewrite and fix things. Though I always thought that the first draft is the honest one. And each rewrite introduces a new lie to the story, even if you are only lying to yourself.
But it is great to flex my personal writing muscles. I'm thinking that it might be something I will look back on when I'm old and useless and be proud of some of the travelling I did while I could.
So many times I have seen wonderful things, and for the want of a photo, or a little note to self, the memory of them flits away like an autumn bird, only to return in a fleeting dream, or just hiding over the tip of my tongue, tantalisingly out of my memory though I fight to reclaim it. But this is possibly just one small part of what definitely feels like a new stage in my life, I am beginning to feel really adult, and I am certain that I want to remember this experience forever.

We got a cab straight from the La Luna to the mission. wondering what was in store at the El Capitan hotel.

I'm really certain that the most interesting people in San Francisco are the cab drivers.
First off, the way they cut a swathe through the traffic is really impressive. Aside from that, for the ten dollars or so I give them, I generally like to ask a few questions, you know, find out a bit of local info straight from the horses'.
Is this restaurant nice?
Whats the music like here?
Basic stuff.
But as soon as you ask one question, there seems to be an automatic warmth built up, these crazy people are all on their way to something better, or people happy with their life, and they all seem to have great stories or attitudes or smells.


The cab driver we got to the Mission was one of the best.

He really reminded me of Hammy.

He played guitar, mandolin, ukulele, piano, just about everything. Told us he was moving to France next year with his girlfriend.
He was 61 and was going out with a french woman for 12 years.
I initiated by asking him if there were any Irish bars in the city, so we could catch the rugby, but as soon as I started him, he was off sprinting.
He began with tales of how he had played in a load of blues groups in the city and segued into his back catalogue of musical proficiency.
Pretty soon, he was telling us about how his mom died.
She left all of her 7 kids a little note telling them not to mourn, that it has to be this way, so get on with your life, live it and be happy.

This guy seemed really happy, and from nowhere, I suddenly hoped that his mother is happy too.
This is another sin that this city commits. My spirituality is coming to life, despite my cynical mind trying to keep it down.
I even hate the word spirituality. The non-specificity of it makes it a cliche. Particularly in America where spirituality refers to everything from healing crystals to Toyota Prius's. But somehow, I have a hunch that there is something, somewhere, keeping a general eye on us, content to watch, but occasionally intent on poking in the right direction. Its nice to feel that protection, particularly as we didn't buy travel insurance.
I turned to the cab driver as he was telling us how much he missed her, just missed talking to her about his life. For some reason I said a very catholic thing. I told him that he should still speak to her, because she will always listen even if she doesn't reply.
Its funny how the bond of mothers and sons can cross even that barrier. I remembered my mother in a stomach warming flash. It was calming to know that the Atlantic barrier we had could be traversed with a phone call or an email, and I know she will always listen too.

The cab driver kept telling us how lucky he was, and he had high hopes for France, which was to be his retirement home after all. He is retiring there to play in a band with some of his friends. He was also a native American, part of some tribe I don't remember, and he made jewellery in an Indian style. He had a cert to teach English as a foreign language . He also lived in Haight Ashbury in '67! He saw the summer of love.

I hope I end up like that guy. But I probably drink and complain too much.

We pulled up at the El Capitan and he helped us with our bags. It was a real beatdown place. From the outside it looked like an abandoned cinema, a place that had definitely seen better times. When we got to the reception the military guy that ran the place was very friendly, very matter-of-fact.
The room is pretty bare. We have a sink, a small bed and a cupboard. And a TV from the early '80s where the picture is predominantly red and never in focus. I always leave a TV on in the background. Like a lonely dog, the chatter is comforting to me if I'm alone or Sarah is quiet.

We were pretty happy with the place, but disappointed with the bare functionality in comparison with the La Luna, though neither of us would admit it to each other. It's great to feel that both of us are really trying to make the most of every situation. Even if we are both secretly unhappy about something, sometimes just ignoring it makes it go away, and soon we were laughing and I had a smile on my face again.
We owned up and both decided to head back to La Luna for the last 3 nights. I felt like a lost tribesman wandering in a rival's patch for some reason, like I really didn't belong in the Mission. I couldn't really weed out the anthropological reasons for my discomfort, but I was happy to run with it and call up the La Luna to book the last 5 nights there.
And its pretty cheap too, less than 50 dollars each a night. I will put it on credit card and worry about it when I get to Melbourne.
We went for breakfast, leaving our worries about the El Capitan behind as we crossed it's threshold.
I love American diners. The choice is fantastic.
Two types of mustard, ketchup, grey poupon, half and half, skimmed milk, cream, bacon crispy burnt or mild, eggs up, over, easy or medium, hash crispy or buttery, and coffee, lots and lots of good coffee with everything.
Why don't they have English muffins in England? Or Ireland for that matter. It is the final perfection of toast. The predator of toast. It will hunt down all white, brown, sourdough and baguettes and destroy them mercilessly without regard for creed, colour, or nutritional value. If Jimmy Page was a baker, his Stairway would be the English muffin.
I was full as hell after breakfast and lit up a cigarette as soon as we came out of the diner. The diner we chose was just over the street from the hotel, so as soon as I came out, I could see the entrance to the El Capitan. The main gate, a big steel edifice that was clearly put there for a reason, was obscured by a police car, lights flashing, no siren. Hairs on the back of my neck suddenly at half mast.
When we had a look in reception, it turns out some guy, late 40's, died in his sleep last night. His work called the hotel when he didn't show up last night.
I know all this because I eaves dropped on the military guy who runs the El Capitan talking to the police.
Well I'm trying to write, and I;m curious about everything and everyone, and death is pretty interesting stuff.
The guy who runs the hotel said it was the 11th person to die in the hotel in 6 years. He also said that the guy who died used to work security in the exact same hotel.
He must have known him well.
The dead man lived here permanently. Its kinda sad because its hard to imagine some guy dying alone in a small bedroom in a hostel in San Fran. Nobody would have known for days if his job hadn't called the hotel, probably angry about his no-show. I think he had a more pressing appointment that night I hope his employer will understand.
The real unfortunate thing was that when we left after collecting our maps from our room, when we passed the stairway to the exit, we also passed a corpse shaped white plastic bag, with a stretcher next to it and two EMT's sitting around silently.
The guy was easily 6 foot and probably about 15 or 16 stone. Stout like most security guards, but I wouldn't say fat. I guessed all this from the lumpy shape in the white plastic bag which was the only memorial left to this guy's mark on the world, other than a possibly unpaid rent cheque.
I left a note with the receptionist to tell Cormac and Meg which room we are in so they would know where to go when they arrive tonight. Looking forward to seeing them really. Its hard being so far away. I called my dad this morning and it seemed so weird to hear his voice so clearly from 5000 odd miles away.