Travel Biography - Week 71.

During the 1995 month-long trip across the USA, I spent four nights and five days in San Francisco. With the Greyhound Ameripass ticket about to expire, there were no more journeys on any of their Americruisers. Instead, I'll head to the airport to fly back to London. Meanwhile, lodging in the Grand Central Hostel on Market Street proved to have been a worthwhile stay.

Vaillancourt Fountain.

Although I stayed in a two-bedroom, like in San Diego, this time, I had the room after a French backpacker had vacated it soon after my arrival. One morning, I woke up and realised that it was Sunday. The hostel owner had a bicycle that anyone could hire. This would be an excellent way to explore the environment more thoroughly than on my previous two visits in the seventies.

After a chat with the owner, I left the hostel with the bike after submitting my passport to him. It came complete with a D-lock and its key to secure it when left unattended.

I was amazed at how deserted and traffic-free Market Street was on a Sunday morning! This street was one of the city's busiest thoroughfares during the working week. Hence, I was able to ride fast, whizzing along in a northeast direction until I arrived at Embarcadero Plaza, an open space fronting the Ferry Building. At the north end of the plaza was the Vaillancourt Fountain, an example of outdoor art leaving it to the visitor to decide whether this was the city's ugliest monument or not.

Vaillancourt Fountain

Another View of Vaillancourt Fountain.

Indeed, the structure was ugly but not offensive to its surroundings. Fortunately, when I arrived, the fountain was fully functioning with waterfalls cascading out of the square outlets. But without the water, as often was the case, so I read, then this mish-mash of large cement square piping, I might have considered an eyesore.

Yet, I liked it. The very ugliness of the structure drew out my admiration for it, and I believe San Francisco was fortunate to feature it.

Onward to the Golden Gate Bridge.

After a while at the Vaillancourt Fountain, I mounted the bike and carried on riding past several piers, still used industrially, until I finally arrived at the famed Pier 39. I know, this was far from the first visit, but one of the benefits of Travel is that boredom was seldom an issue. I could visit a location over and over again, feeling grateful that I was there. And I might as well make the most of it and soak in the experience. Although I wasn't fully aware at the time, this was to be my final visit to this fascinating city. And that despite that my travel career was far from over. If anything, the best was still to come.

From Fisherman's Wharf, not only there was a wide view of San Francisco Bay, but also a view of an island prison, Alcatraz. After closing in March 1963, the site reopened to the public around 1980, after the National Park Service purchased the site from the US military in 1972.

By the afternoon, I rode west to the Golden Gate Bridge. I recall the mid-1970s and particularly 1977, my first visit to the attraction. I was with my Italian friend from Turin, living in the nearby town of Walnut Creek, when we approached the bridge for the first time, only to see it wrapped in a thick fog. A day or so later, we saw the bridge in its full glory under the North Californian sunshine. To my amazement, the bridge was not painted gold, but a dull red. Yet, I wasn't that surprised.

And here I stood once again after 17 years (since 1978, my second visit) with a greater knowledge that the bridge was named after the strait that passes under it, linking the Bay with the Pacific Ocean. Near the south entrance was an exhibit, a short section of the 92.4 cm thick cable, consisting of 27,572 wires. In total, 80,000 miles, or 128,743 km of wire was used for both of the 2,351.7-metre-long suspension cables. Considering the equatorial circumference of the Earth at 24,901 miles, there would be enough wire length at the Golden Gate Bridge to circle the Earth at its equator just over 3.2 times!

The figure of that of Irving Morrow, the Architect.

Placard on the Bridge Exhibit

The Golden Gate Bridge Cable Segment

View from Marin County

After soaking in such engineering feats from the outdoor exhibit, I cycled the length of the bridge to reach Marin County on the other side of the strait. The main road carried on north whilst, somewhere past the bridge, a lane branched off to the observation point. From there, I enjoyed a magnificent view of the bridge with the skyline of the city far off, above the azure-blue waters of San Francisco Bay.

During the afternoon, I cycled along the bridge back onto the city peninsula. Then I turned right to look for the Golden Gate Park, and it didn't take long to find it. My original intention was to ride through the park to the Pacific coastline. I cycled west and arrived at the Japanese Gardens, where several pavilions of Oriental architecture were surrounded by trees I immediately recognised from the blue and white willow dinner plates my parents had during my boyhood. I never made it to the coastline, as the beauty of the park features kept me in the Strawberry Hill area, where a waterfall, Huntington Falls, formed part of a creek that began at a pond on the summit of the hill and emptied into Stow Lake, a ring-shaped body of water surrounding Strawberry Hill. The island was accessible by two little footbridges, one on each side of the lake. 

And it was here that I came within a hair's breadth from disaster!

I leaned the bike on a tree without locking it. The bike had a D-lock, and the tree trunk was too wide for it. There was no one around. So I took a chance and left the mount unlocked and unattended whilst I checked out the waterfall, ascending the footpath that ran alongside.

However, after a few minutes, I felt a strong urge to return to the spot where I left my bicycle. As I approached, I saw a man standing right in front of it, gazing at it. When I suddenly appeared, he was startled.

Is this your bike? he asked. To which I answered, Yes, it is. And what are you up to?

You are very lucky! He exclaimed. I was about to ride off with it when you turned up. Lock it up next time!

The man walked off, leaving me alone with the bike, which was the property of the hostel and not truly mine.

I felt my skin crawl. If I had turned up just a second later, the bike would have been taken. And the hostel would have held me responsible. The proprietor was holding my passport as a guarantee of its safe return. Suppose the bike was taken. First of all, I'll be stuck in the middle of Golden Gate Park with no other way to get back to the hostel except to walk. Then I would have had to announce to the hostel proprietor that the bicycle I hired from him that morning was stolen. He would have then asked whether I used the lock provided. By answering "No", I would have been held responsible. He then would have held my passport, forcing me to miss my flight home unless the value of the bike was reimbursed, which, I guess, would have come out of the credit card I carried. The joys and good memories of a fascinating holiday would have been wrecked by one minor mistake!

I mounted the bike and began to ride back to the hostel. It was early evening but still plenty of daylight left. The street I was on was dead straight with as many as 17 blocks, that is, that number of traffic light sets. As each set changed to green around 80-100 metres ahead of me, I began to ride through the city fast, giving me a feeling of exuberance that offset the trembling fear I felt at being so close to losing the bike.

This goes to show how huge the peninsula really is. A fast ride on the bike and I was able to cover about two-thirds across, eastbound from the park to my hostel. When I wheeled the bike back to the ground floor reception and kept quiet about what could have happened, my passport was handed back to me with no fuss at all.

In the kitchen, which was on the top floor, among other songs, Elvis Presley's top tune, Suspicious Minds was playing from the cassette deck left there, probably belonging to one of the backpackers. This great song gave me a skip in my step as I prepared dinner.

Pavilions at Japanese Gardens.

Huntington Falls.

A Visit to Alcatraz.

One afternoon, I boarded a ferry from Fisherman's Wharf to Alcatraz. After arrival, I was free to roam the abandoned prison freely, although ranger-led tours were also available. However, I have always preferred independence - the freedom to roam without hindrance or time limits. The visit took in the names of America's most notorious convicts: George "Machine Gun" Kelly, Al "Scarface" Capone, Robert Stroud "Birdman of Alcatraz", Meyer "Mickey" Cohen, Alvin "Creepy" Karpis, and Arthur "Doc" Barker.

The American cell was different from those in the British prison. In the UK, each cell is a room offering a degree of privacy, and accessible by a heavy door (hence, the slammer) with a narrow eye slot through which the warden could check on the inmate without the need to open the door. In the States, the front of the cell facing into the corridor consists of floor-to-ceiling bars, thus offering no privacy whatsoever. Anyone could walk past the cell and look into it whilst the inmate was defecating. Furthermore, each cell facing the other across the corridor gives a full view of the inmate within. Perhaps it was from America where the phrase, behind bars, might have originated.

The central aisle, or corridor, had a clock at one end and it was nicknamed Times Square, and on each side were rows of cells. A parallel aisle was known as The Broadway. There were two floors, the upper floor contained cells used by the most violent prisoners. There was also an ammunition store to keep violence in check, an open shower room (no cubicles) the kitchen and dining room, and the exercise yard, the only part of the prison out in the open air. Outside, the cylindrical water tank still stands tall, and this also powered a generator that kept the lights on. There was also a prison chapel, a building on its own, and the Warden's house.

Approaching Alcatraz, known as "The Rock."

An inmate's cell, Alcatraz.

Open Shower room.

I must have spent a couple of hours at Alcatraz before the last ferry for the return sail to San Francisco departed. The visit opened my eyes to the reality of what American prison life was really like. Indeed, the small bedroom I occupied, with the maximum level of privacy, was like a palace by comparison.

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Next Week: I meet up with a longstanding friend who once lived near me in my hometown.

Brexit, A Modern-Day Edenic Lie?

Only yesterday a tradesman called at our home to inspect and upgrade our smoke alarm system. As with most two-storey homes, we have two smoke alarms, one downstairs in the hallway, outside the kitchen door, the other upstairs above the landing, outside the bathroom door. I can understand the downstairs location. Cooking can be a risky business, and a slip up could cause the contents of the saucepan or frying pan to burn or smoulder, with thick smoke rising from the stove which would set off the alarm to screaming mode. 

But how a fire can start within a bathtub or shower unit is a bit of a mystery. Whether scalding my foot as I attempt to enter a bathtub of overheated water would set off the upstairs alarm or not, no doubt the makers of these gadgets had seen the wisdom to have such an instalment.

Can a bathroom generate smoke? Stock photo.

But it's not the gadgets in focus here but rather the tradesman who called by appointment. His broken English, as he introduced himself, quickly gave the game away. Another "foreign immigrant" stealing a job from an indigenous white Englishman who is left to live off Jobseeker's Allowance. Indeed, how terrible the European Union (EU) was to allow immigrants to invade our Sceptred Isles! The tradesman might have glimpsed into our kitchen whilst servicing the smoke detector and not realise that its excellent decor was also the work of non-indigenous foreigners, who also installed a new row of kitchen cupboards as part of their work schedule.

And the tradesman calls on the same day the UK leaves the EU. It was an apt reminder that the result of the 2016 referendum was due to the annoying fact that Britain was swamped by immigrants. Never mind that the total percentage of all immigrants into the UK was only 14% in 2018, the percentage from the EU is only a fraction of this, a mere 6%.

This added that it was the UK and not the EU who encouraged immigration, especially under Tony Blair's Government. And allowing them to live for six months without a job also was our idea, not the EU's. And then all the domestic problems, the kind which can afflict any nation: the wealth gap for starters, then the ailing NHS - which was brought about by our own austerity and the rise of the ageing British population, and not by immigrants, nor the EU. The decline of British industry came about mainly under Thatcher's Government and such resulting redundancy and the rise of crime is of our making and not from EU membership. Terrorism did not arise from EU membership either. Rather it was from the radical Muslims from the Middle East which isn't allied with the EU.*

But xenophobia against European immigration, Poles mainly, which was the main thrust to leave. After the result was declared on the next day, there was a sudden spike of racist and xenophobic violence thrown towards foreigners, again, mainly towards Poles but also to Asians too, who were not from the EU. These incidents were physical as well as verbal, making the reality of Brexit a massive disappointment to these citizens, encouraging them to uproot and return to their homeland with a bitter taste of British experience lingering in their mouths as well as giving the English a bad reputation. Hmm. Very Christian indeed!

Alongside the grudge against foreigners, the other reason why we voted to leave was to regain our independence and sovereignty. Ah, sovereignty. As one Facebook friend wrote about the newly-gained freedom, how wonderful it is to be free from the domain of the world's worst crooks. World's worst crooks? I thought they were locked up at Alcatraz Prison, an island jailhouse surrounded by the Pacific inlet of San Francisco Bay. Oh, wait! The prison closed down in March 1963. That is 32 years before I visited the site as a backpacking tourist in 1995. With a further 25 years leading up to the present day, 57 years is too long for the likes of Al Capone to settle in Brussels as a member of the European Parliament. Therefore, if my friend's evaluation of these members is correct, then we can only assume that at least one MEP is Capone's grandson.

Alcatraz housed Al Capone and other notorious criminals.

Having visited the EU Museum in Brussels only last year with my beloved wife, I find it strange that there seems to be a total ignorance on why the EEC, the forerunner of the EU, formed in the first place when Europe was still recovering from the ravages of war, and never again want any more of such a world conflict. The result is freedom of movement between countries, free international trade, a universal currency, and the ability for anyone to settle in a different country, including Brits settling abroad and continentals settling here, as well as a deterrent against another outbreak of a global war, certainly has made these "world's worst crooks" look like saints by comparison. Al Capone, you're forgiven!

This national pride (no humility?) national independence (from God?) and national sovereignty (never submit to God or to another nation or empire?) - are the threefold promise constantly put out by Leave supporters. Really, it's not about the strength or weakness of the Economy. It's all about national pride, independence and sovereignty. And a promise to rise in power sometime in the future? This long-sought imperial mentality? According to my experience in life, there is much said about "The Noble Englishman" being right at the top of Darwin's evolutionary chain. According to the Media, that's is what Brexit is all about, isn't it?

Promises of national glory. Prospects of a golden economic future. I can't help but hear the leaves on the trees of history shaking as if blowing in the wind, the flapping of the pages in the Bible. After all, isn't Brexit the very heart and soul of the fallen human psyche? These words continue to echo across a long, long period:

And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die.
For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.
Genesis 3:5.

If I can see a parallel between the Edenic Lie which led to the entry of sin and death to all men - and future national glory, then it's either a spiritual discernment I have or I'm insane or unrealistic. To be proud to be English, as it has been said to me, seems to imply shame of belonging to any other nationality, indicating an admission of superiority as a Noble Englishman. Indeed, that's what Brexit want to aim for, isn't it? National superiority?

I mourn over this. I just couldn't celebrate, whether at home or at Parliament Square with Nigel Farage exalting himself, while Big Ben remains stubbornly quiet, refusing even one bong, and no fireworks either. In fact, at the stroke of 23.00 hours on January 31st 2020, there was only one firework let off from a neighbour two doors away from our home. It was one of those fireworks which threw one explosive star after another into the air after just one igniting of the touchpaper. And that was it. Nothing at all resembling Bonfire Night or even New Year. Yet even Alex and I went briefly to the window to watch it.

Then the ensuring quietness of the night. The sense of normality lasting into dawn, but as Tony Blackburn's Sounds of the Sixties on Radio 2 attempting to bring cheer into our bedroom, I could still sense a death, the passing of something. A sense of isolation. A new beginning? It felt more like a horrible death. Furthermore, on the very same day when we were about to leave the EU, there was also news about how the coronavirus from China had already entered England within two patients, up north in Yorkshire. A very ominous timing indeed!

The world turns. The sun rises, the gentle wind sways the finer branches of the still-leafless trees of Winter, magpies continue to nest, elsewhere, rivers continue to flow, the waves of the sea continue to lap along the beach, clouds drift across the sky. On a more global scale, the Gulf Stream just keeps on flowing, bring warmer waters from the Carribean Sea, across the Atlantic Ocean, to give us milder Winters, whilst Canada and parts of the USA lay under a blanket of snow. And we continue breathing, wondering what has the future have in store for us.

Despite the continuous daily activity of the entire natural order which I could see, hear, and having awareness of, there is this other bad feeling in the air alongside the mournful sorrow. That is the sense of gloating of the Leaver's victory over us Remainers who had lost the original vote and is believed by them that through our ministers at Westminster, we tried our best to overturn Brexit (even if I wasn't involved.) That snooty look down the nose from the likes of Etonian Jacob Rees-Mogg, that smug attitude from other supporters, even from among churchgoers, the laughing and scornful tease from the street mob, shouting down the EU and its supporters in a derisory manner, making us feel small and maybe even embarrassed at their presence.

A pro-Brexit march in London.

And such awful titles such as Remoaner and Remainiac, the latter coined by disgraced Daily Mail columnist Katie Hopkins, one of Alan Sugar's The Apprentice fired candidates, who referred to all Remainers and Londoners alike as being barely distinguishable from the apeman, well behind on the evolutionary scale. Indeed, the Noble Englishman is definitely not a supporter of the EU!

And then there are my fellow brothers in Christ whom I know well. By their support of Brexit by some of them, including my closest friends, I had gotten the impression that Matthew 6:33 actually has Jesus giving the instruction:

But seek first your nation's sovereignty and its glory, and all these things will be added to you.

I'm aware of the seriousness of such tampering with God's Word. But if going by John's cry right at the end of the whole Bible, it's worth considering what the priorities of a believer's life should be.

But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. Matthew 6:33.
And John cries out:

He who testifies of these things, says, "Yes, I'm coming soon."
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.
The grace of the Lord Jesus be with God's people. Amen. Revelation 22:20-21.

The ushering of God's Kingdom. A Kingdom of peace and righteousness, and with the Curse of the Edenic Lie at last lifted from all Creation. Now that's the hope for optimism and nothing else which falls short should even be considered, especially if it causes so much pain, division and controversy.

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*The Guardian newspaper, February 1st, 2020.