I'm good to go.

We spent the day kinda out of it.
I wanted to go to the Exploratorium, a hands-on type science museum for doubting Thomas's of physics. We got there at about 11 after another morning in which i got up early feeling strangely refreshed even though I drank that wine last night and stayed up late after another exhausting day.
For some reason I only need 7 hours sleep now and I'm good to go.
Unfortunately, because it was monday, the Exploratorium was closed. I didn't mind too much though, because it's located at the Palace of Fine Arts, a hugely opulent arch left over from some 1916 economics fair. We sat there in the park, looking at the manicured lake and its arches and smoking cigarettes and cursing while disapproving mothers steered their children around and away from us.
I can't help cursing too much, I'm Irish. Cursing is as alluring as good poetry to me.
But here in California, cursing and smoking on the street makes you akin to a homeless junkie, or one of those moron hippies begging for weed money or bus money or soy milk latte money.
That just makes me want to curse and smoke more. I think I have had over 120 cigarettes since I landed. I can count them from the 600 we bought at the airport. Though I am smoking much less weed because it's very very strong.
After that we went back to the hotel to get a bit of downtime and watch daytime tv until the heat of the midday sun stopped beating down on the cracked landscape.

Cormac texted us to meet up. He and Meg had just biked over the Golden Gate from Pier 39 on rental bikes. It sounded like fun, and Sarah and I decided we would have to include it in our own plans for our last three days, after Cormac and Meg left for New York. The bike route took them all the way across the Presidio Park along the beach and across the bridge, then back again before their 3 hours ran out.
I can't stop thinking about Cian and Sarah and what faces them. They are taking off from Ireland soon and spending a year in Australia with us. They are starting their travels in Bangkok, a place that frightens the shit out of me, and from there, moving to Phi-Phi and Laos and other places whose pronunciations are up for argument.
I knew that Sarah hadn't got her loan confirmed and was hoping that that and the other bureaucratic bullshit was all sorted so they could worry about taking care of themselves and getting nicely drunk to ease the culture shock.
I was also worried about Cian. In the weeks before we left he seemed very self assured. He has this quiet confidence and is never phased by the big stuff that sends my stomach twirling and my mind to heac-achey distraction.
He took refuge on the Internet, reading up about where he was going and what he was doing, making sure he knew as much as possible about what was in store to protect against any potential trouble.
That workhorse style has to have its just rewards.
I definitely thought that that was a good move on his part. I'm doing the same with Melbourne, reading guidebooks, forums and websites to find out as much as I can. I still feel like Melbourne is going to kick my ass for at least two weeks before I humble myself enough to apologise and buy it a drink.
I remembered that I did the same thing when I first came to California on a J1. After I spent two weeks in San Francisco, I moved to San Diego to find a job and a place to live for the summer.
That was a bad move. I hate San Diego, and after leaving California yesterday to get to Santa Cruz, I realise now that I also hate the rest of California outside the boundaries of San Fran itself.
It's such a strange state, full of surfers and surfing, liberals, hippies, soccer-moms, vegan restaurants, Pro-gun weirdos, organic foodstores and nuclear families.
I'll give you a minute example, try to put the jigsaw together of the tiny things that make me feel like this.
At one stage, whilst more ambling, we passed by a beaten up Volvo estate with two kids in the back, and an overweight mom in the front berating them. The licence plate read "NRAYES." It took me a while to figure that one out but when I did I loudly started insulting them as we passed by. I couldn't help it. The idiocy of making one pro-murder statement so important to you that it's labelled on your car every time you take your fat ass to the foodstore to slap your kids some more and buy them some diabetes. It just made me see red.


We met Cormac and Meg at the Palace of Fine Arts again because they hadn't seen it and I wanted a closer look. Meg was badly sunburnt on her shoulders. When I was sitting next to her, I fancied I could actually feel the heat from her back it was so red.
We walked back to our hotel at my suggestion as the lads were tired and wanted to use the WiFi we had set up at our hotel, Cormac rang his mom from Sarah's laptop, waking her up because it was 12am in Ireland, even though it was only 4 in San Fran. We drank Sam Adams in the hotel while everyone took turns surfing the net. We were all just talking and relaxing, everyone seemed happy and the vibe was great.
We decided to hike it to North Beach (A wonderful Italian area of San Francisco with a million restaurants and bars, but no beach) to get some good cheap Italian food on our last night together. We set off and walked almost the full length of Chestnut Ave across about 20 or so blocks. We meandered around the small parks and restaurants looking for some place to eat, and eventually stopped in an Irish bar called O'Reilly's for a drink before dinner.
The American barman in the Irish bar poured a bad Guinness that was brought to our table by an Australian waitress while U2 played on the stereo.
It was that kind of place.
Posters full of pictures of Irish bars and Newgrange and old-timey Dublin in the toilets, violins, green post boxes and random old looking bikes hanging spare everywhere.
The waitress recommended the Trattoria Siciliana on the corner a block away for cheap and cheerful pasta and pizza, so we went there. I got the best seafood spaghetti ever. Baby calamari, clams, mussels, prawn, shrimp and miscellaneous in a garlic and tomato sauce.
Cormac and I both really liked our meals, but Meg and Sarah weren't delighted with theirs.
It was a cheap place though, so I put it on my credit card, collected some cash from everyone as I am running low.

After that we went back to the Irish bar again. As soon as we arrived, a guy sitting on his own outside started berating us with drunk Chicago. Ken was his name. He looked like a cross between Charlie Sheen and Simon Cowell with bad teeth.
He was a mad laugh, full of contradiction and contrite diction like most Americans.
Pictures of his kids, Irish jokes, patriotism and flirting with waitresses. All were in his arsenal and all got a stage tonight. I love that East Coast cynicism. California certainly needs some.
He entertained us while I got drunk on more bad Guinness.
I got such a kick out of being Irish and drinking Guinness and smoking on the street outside an Irish bar with no Irish people in it in North Beach San Francisco. I keep catching myself like that, suddenly amidst the doldrums of travel or eating, I keep realising the enormity of San Francisco and the wonderful novelty of being abroad, far from home, and just out to have fun.

We said our goodbyes to Meg and Cormac as we pushed them into a cab. I was really sad to see them go. I don't think I will see Cormac for a year, Meg, I might never see again. I hate those kind of goodbyes.
We got our own cab home and stumbled around the hotel room, rolling and smoking weed, feeling dizzy, changing channels, shouting at the TV, surfing the net and generally being typical Irish hotel guests.

I woke up at 5am and turned off the TV and lights.