This past weekend was overly insane and filled with headaches, I partied like a college kid, and I got to reunite with my cousin after 8 years. Overall? I’d say it was definitely one for the books.
My cousin, Sandy, and her two friends, Christina and Kat, came in from Vancouver, Canada to hang out for a few days in San Francisco. With a three-day weekend to look forward to, Jeff and I made the two-hour trip west to see them. Right off the bat, we get stuck in the Labor Day weekend rush into the city with only the San Mateo Bridge and the Golden Gate bridge open to allow people in and out of San Francisco. Still, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
I met my cousin and her friends for a cable car ride from Van Ness and Polk down to Market Street to experience the Farmer’s Market, a first for all four of us. If you’re ever in the city on a Saturday morning, I highly recommend checking it out. The fruit is absolutely amazing and the smaller vendors have the most unique art and home goods I’ve ever seen.
Afterward, the girls and I rented bikes and headed to Boudin’s for their first clam chowder in a bread bowl. I had a steak because clam chowder doesn’t always agree with me, unfortunately. We hopped back on the bikes and peddled our way to the Golden Gate bridge for some photo ops. Lady Luck was not on our side. Once we got really close, we realized that the bridge was completely covered in fog and had to head back to the Ferry Building to return our bikes. And that’s when the night took a crazy turn for me.
I’m a driver, not a public transportation taker. I did extremely well with getting my bus pass and asking a couple of local gals where my bus stopped at. After almost 45 minutes, I finally was able to get on the 38 and take it back to my friend John’s apartment, where he and Jeff were patiently waiting for me and worrying about my safety. John took us to this really cool sushi place, who’s name escapes me now. After a few rounds of sake, beer and sushi, John took us across the street to The Bitter End bar for a round of drinks while we tried to figure out where to take my cousin and her friends for drinks later that night.
We finally decided on a karaoke bar where we met two really fun British guys who were on vacation while we waited for the girls to arrive. We didn’t get to sing on stage, but you better believe with sang along with the crowd to some really great songs. On the way out of the bar, Jeff tripped on a step and ended up severely spraining his ankle. Drunk Instagram-ing is ALWAYS a terrible idea, people. Like the trooper he is, he got right back up and finished posting his picture. Jeff and I took a cab, while John got a lift driver (gypsy cab) for him and the girls.
Our cab driver ended up dropping us off 3 blocks away from where I told him to drop us, but didn’t catch it until I got Jeff out of the car and stood on the sidewalk. So, there we were, two drunken fools in a city we’re not familiar with, trying to get back to our friend’s apartment. Also, Jeff was limping heavily because of his ankle. Once we got to the building, I had to have John go down the three flights of stairs and help Jeff back up to the apartment. My memory is hazy from there because I kept falling asleep on the floor while Jeff was alternating between trying to convince everyone he was fine and throwing up. John was having great fun with all of this, naturally.
The next morning was the worst. Jeff had a tennis ball-sized lump on his ankle and I thought I was going to be sick. If you’ve been following this blog at all this year, you will know that he and I do not drink like this. Like, ever. We’re beer people. We are not hard liquor, party all night people, but we did it and it was awesome. Until I had to pull my car around so we could leave.
After John took 20 minutes trying to find his car that had my keys in them, I headed one block over to get my car. As I’m texting a friend and making coffee plans for later that night, I realized my car is no where to be found. John and I walked around for two blocks trying to figure out what the hell happened to my car.
It had been towed. For no good reason, as I was within the limits of my parking space. And it was going to cost $528 to bail my baby out of car jail. Did I mention they also gave me a $100 parking ticket? Because they did. Did I cry in my car for a minute after retrieving my car? You bet your ass I did.
FOUR HOURS LATER, we finally made it through the intense traffic nearing Tracy and I got Jeff home. FOUR HOURS. With the Bay Bridge, San Francisco is maybe an hour and 45 minutes. FOUR HOURS. There was so much anger inside my car on the way home.
Yeah, this past weekend is definitely one for the books.