Famous Spanish architect Gaudi built many stunning buildings throughout Barcelona, instantly recognizable by their out-of-this-world, almost psychedelic beauty. Here, the work called La Pedrera.

Famous Spanish architect Gaudi built many stunning buildings throughout Barcelona, instantly recognizable by their out-of-this-world, almost psychedelic beauty. Here, the work called La Pedrera.

More architectural examples of Catalan Modernism. Ont he right, Casa Amatller. On the left, another one of Gaudi's works, Casa Batlló.

More architectural examples of Catalan Modernism. On the right, Casa Amatller. On the left, another one of Gaudi’s works, Casa Batlló.

The interior of Gaudi's masterpiece, La Sagrada Familia. Arguably the most unique cathedral in the world.

The interior of Gaudi’s masterpiece, La Sagrada Familia. Arguably the most unique cathedral in the world.

Another glimpse from the interior of Gaudi's La Sagrada Familia.

Another glimpse from the interior of Gaudi’s La Sagrada Familia.

The more classical architecture in Barcelona is lovely too, like this mint green facade frosted with white curls, like a gourmet cake.

The more classical architecture in Barcelona is lovely too, as in this mint green facade frosted with white curls like a gourmet cake.

I became obsessed with the balconies in Barcelona. The variety and quality of the stonework was incredible to behold. These are but two examples, culled from dozens of others still in my memory card.

I became obsessed with the balconies in Barcelona. The variety and quality of the stonework was incredible to behold. These are but two examples, culled from dozens of others still in my memory card.

One final example of Barcelona's beautiful architecture, found on the boulevard called Passeig de Gràcia. Such a gorgeous city.

One final example of Barcelona’s beautiful architecture, found on the boulevard called Passeig de Gràcia. Such a gorgeous city.

*
Want to follow in my footsteps?

Visit…

La Pedrera | Casa Amatller | Casa Batlló | La Sagrada Familia | Passeig de Gràcia

*

Leave a comment
Shades of crystal deepening to aquamarine. Now these are the kinds of gemstones I can get behind.

Shades of crystal deepening to aquamarine. Now these are the kinds of gemstones I can get behind.

Just your typical tropical paradise, y'know.

Just your typical tropical paradise, y’know.

The water in Bora Bora is of a shade, clarity, and temperature that call to mind a vast swimming pool.

The water in Bora Bora is of a shade, clarity, and temperature that calls to mind a vast swimming pool.

Left, a freshly cracked coconut. Right, one of the gravity-defying mountains of Moorea. (Not to be confused with the Mines of Moria, fellow Lord of the Rings fans.

Left, a freshly cracked coconut. Right, one of the gravity-defying mountains of Moorea. (Not to be confused with the Mines of Moria, fellow Lord of the Rings fans.)

A pinkish lavender sunset on the island of Moorea in French Polynesia.

A pinkish lavender sunset on the island of Moorea in French Polynesia.

Leave a comment

By the fourth day, it was clear:

I’ve made a huge mistake.

When I booked a 19 day transpacific cruise, it seemed like a great adventure in the offing. We’d be starting in Hawaii, a place I love; then voyaging 5500 nautical miles to the postcard-perfect cerulean islands of French Polynesia, a place I’ve never been to; then another 2200 nautical mile journey to New Zealand, a country I’ve dreamed of visiting for a decade; finally, debarking from Sydney, Australia, a city I remember as amiable and picturesque.

As for the days sailing between the ports of call, the pamphlet described them thus: “At Sea.”

It’ll be fine, I thought. Plenty of time to read books, go to the gym, drink wine, relax. What could be so bad about that?

Even so, something about the words haunted me. “At Sea.” It was like the music signaling the “Jaws” shark: duh-nuh. In two notes, an ocean of dread.

At Sea.

Duh-nuh.
Continue reading…

Leave a comment
Aerial shot of Alyeska, Alaska from the helicopter. Views like this make me want to get a pilot’s license!

Aerial shot of Alyeska, Alaska from the helicopter. Views like this make me want to get a pilot’s license!

In Seward, AK, it's summertime and the living’s easy.

In Seward, AK, it’s summertime and the living’s easy.

Seward, AK marks the southern terminus of the famous Iditarod (and provides a beautiful walking path for far less ambitious adventurers like me).

Seward, AK marks the southern terminus of the famous Iditarod (and provides a beautiful walking path for far less ambitious adventurers like me).

Along the Iditarod trail, a dog sled stacked with flower boxes on a bright summer day.

Along the Iditarod trail, a dog sled stacked with flower boxes on a bright summer day.

Blue glacier ice, evergreen forest, and clouds floating in mist in Kenai Fjords National Park.

Blue glacier ice, evergreen forest, and clouds floating in mist in Kenai Fjords National Park.

The dreamlike landscape of mountains and calving glaciers off the coast of Alaska.

The dreamlike landscape of mountains and calving glaciers off the coast of Alaska.

A study in contrasting proportions: man vs. nature in Kenai Fjords National Park.

A study in contrasting proportions: man vs. nature in Kenai Fjords National Park.

About to get up close and personal with a glacier.

About to get up close and personal with a glacier.

Husky puppies! Chewing on every puppy’s favorite toy, a pair of shoes.

Husky puppies! Chewing on every puppy’s favorite toy, a pair of shoes.

And then those puppies grow into tireless (but still very sweet!) sledding champions.

And then those puppies grow into tireless (but still very sweet!) sledding champions.

The fantastic, gorgeous strangeness of being on a glacier in the middle of August.

The fantastic, gorgeous strangeness of being on a glacier in the middle of August.

(As I affectionately christened her), the m.v. Monstrosity, docked for repairs in Seward.

(As I affectionately christened her), the m.v. Monstrosity, docked for repairs in Seward.

Click Alaska | Surprises on a Cruise to Nowhere for the corresponding blog post of the journey.

*

Want to follow in my footsteps?

Stay (and eat & drink…endlessly…it is a cruise ship, after all)
Celebrity Millennium Alaska Cruise

Visit…
Iditarod National Historic Trail | Kenai Fjords National Park | Ididaride Dogsledding Tours

*

1 Comment

What do you do when you are told, just before boarding your cruise along the coast of Alaska, that the ship has engine trouble and won’t be going anywhere?

It took 17 years for me to screw up the courage to go on a cruise. It was a last minute decision to go, and I figured, what’s the worst that could happen?

Well, this happened: while ushered into lines to board the cruise ship, passengers were informed that the ship had engine trouble and wouldn’t be going anywhere. We were welcome to stay aboard the ship while it remained docked for repairs in Seward, AK, for four days, at which point we would sail directly to Vancouver. So much for my Alaska cruise.

But then I made the decision: screw it, I’m going to have a good time no matter what. This attitude has brought me at least as much trouble as profit over my 25 years of life, but I’ve never regretted it.

I present to you my tale of an unconventional Alaska cruise experience.
Continue reading…

1 Comment

I am driving through the green mountains of Basque Country on an empty roadway, in endless evening Spanish sun, when suddenly after miles of static on FM Radiohead comes through the dial crystal-clear, Thom Yorke wailing at me “Idiot, slow down” while the radio host murmurs over his voice “tranquilo…tranquilo” over and over and over again, spooky as SOS beacon.

I don’t really believe in signs, but this feels like one. Because here I am, in the verdant mountains of northern Spain, a place I’ve never seen before –and may not ever see again – with somebody I love sitting next to me in the passenger seat, the world and the night stretching out before us.

And I think, “I want to be in Tokyo.”

And Cape Town. And Valparaíso. And French Polynesia. And the iciest reaches of the Arctic circle.

Even as one desire is being fulfilled, I am already fantasizing about its opposite. In the midst of bucolic mountain scenery, I dream of glittering skyscrapers; in the bustle of city centers, I long for the silence & isolation of remote wilderness.

I used to think of “wanderlust” and place the emphasis on the “wander.” Now I wonder about the “lust” part of the equation. So much world to see, so little time to see it. I am always wanting more.

On this trip in Europe, we sped through 3 countries and 8 cities in under 3 weeks. I thought I would hate it, that it would be rushed and overwhelming. To my surprise, though, I kind of enjoyed being in a constant state of motion. My only regret regarding the pace of the journey came as we passed through the south of France, when the GPS routed us through tiny villages that looked like something out of a medieval dreamland, villages whose names escape me and whose crumbling Gallic beauty will haunt me until I find my way back someday, somehow. Even now this is what stands out to me: what was left unexplored.

For a lot of complicated reasons, slow travel – likely a more holistic, more fulfilling expression of wanderlust – is impossible for me at this point. But I’d like to think I still extracted value from “fast” travel. To start with, some interesting & varied accommodations: a chateau in the south of France, a former royal palace in Lisbon, a boutique design hotel in Madrid that used to host Spain’s most famous bullfighters.

In my visits to major tourist sites, I actually found genuine gratification. Hours luxuriating in the overwhelming visual feast that is the Prado Museum in Madrid – in particular, long moments drinking in the majesty and lustrous eroticism of Rubens’ paintings. A sleepy July afternoon hiking up the winding alleyways of Granada, Spain, a steady vertical ascent in 100 degree heat, nearly alone except for the occasional passerby as heatproof (or crazy) as me, for a panoramic view of the Alhambra, the famous Islamic palace and fortress built a millennium ago.

I also participated (okay, dove head first) in the hedonic decadence of vacation life. Mainly it was all about gustatory indulgence: clouds of fresh goat cheese airy as whipped cream; tapas of tissue-paper-thin slices of jamón ibérico; paella Valenciana served straight from an enormous, hot cast iron skillet; chocolate gelato so rich with cacao as to be nearly black. The acclimation to European drinking culture, a pleasure in itself: a glass of wine with lunch, sangria in the late afternoon, more wine with dinner (…and maybe after too.)

Then there were those instances of connection with other people that make travel truly memorable. Meeting a stranger in a tiny secondhand bookstore in Portugal & discovering a mutual love for Dostoevsky, comparing his Portuguese translation to my English version. Driving thousands of kilometers on a road trip, and on a certain section – storm clouds brewing above, sunshine in the rearview mirror (even the weather was cooperatively symbolic) – having a conversation with my mother I will remember for the rest of my life. Strolling in the soft morning light of the French countryside with my best friend, feeling a swell of love and gratitude as I realize that no matter where we are in the world, we will always have each other, and that home can be another person.

Reminiscing now, I don’t think it’s unfair to say that even traveling at a whirlwind pace I wrought moments of pleasure, revelation, significance. But maybe that itself is the problem. Is this a darker expression of wanderlust? The first part of the word connotes “drift” – the second, “desire”…or, perhaps, “devour.” Dare I admit the thrill of alighting on new land, getting a taste, and leaving before the novelty has worn off? A conqueror’s pleasure, perhaps, or a player’s. I feel guilty for liking it.

There’s a quote from Kerouac’s On the Road I think of when I think about wanderlust, even to this day. It’s the famous one; you probably already know which one I’m talking about. I read the book when I was fifteen and fell in love with it – an old teenage crush I try not to be embarrassed by, because (I tell myself) it’s the kind of book a teenager would fall in love with. Maybe because it encapsulates adolescence itself, its wildness and solipsism, its passionate, unformed yearning.

A decade later, I look at On the Road more critically than fondly. But who and what we fall in love with when we are young has a way of imprinting forever. Those essential longings remain. I still feel that restless urge to escape the strictures of “ordinary” life. I still crave exploration of every square inch of the earth that I can fit within my lifetime. I still feel more acutely than ever that bone-deep, incomparably delicious ache for distant places.

Ten years on and I still think about that Kerouac quote all the time. It’s like the dubious tattoo gotten in youth, inked not on my skin but inside my skull. (I guess that’s worse.)

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”

Desirous of everything at the same time – that part I haven’t outgrown. And for me, nothing can satisfy and stoke lust quite like wandering.

Leave a comment
Changing light. A triptych of Puerto Vallarta sunsets.

Changing light. A triptych of Puerto Vallarta sunsets.

Heavy stones will become grains of sand will become fine powder. Such is the power of water & erosion.

Heavy stones will become grains of sand will become fine powder. Such is the power of water & erosion.

Left, me at a quarter-century old now, or young. Right, the sun-bleached blues and golds of afternoon.

Left, me at a quarter-century old now, or young. Right, the sun-bleached blues and golds of afternoon.

Nothing says summer like…

Nothing says summer like…

Left and right, all the tropical accoutrements — palm trees, turquoise water, piña colada.

Left and right, all the tropical accoutrements — palm trees, turquoise water, piña colada.

Tiny crab encountering the enormous obstacle of my sandal. All our problems are relative.

Tiny crab encountering the enormous obstacle of my sandal. All our problems are relative.

Left, the exterior of the town church. Right, the interior. The familiar and universal ornateness of Catholic churches.

Left, the exterior of the town church. Right, the interior. The familiar and universal ornateness of Catholic churches.

A sweet moment between family members.

A sweet moment between family members.

Madre de Dios, draped in a veil of cobwebs.

Madre de Dios, draped in a veil of cobwebs.

At the Puerto Vallarta Botanical Gardens, desert rose & sculptural petals.

At the Puerto Vallarta Botanical Gardens, desert rose & sculptural petals.

More from the Puerto Vallarta Botanical Gardens. Left, a piñata (now wishing I had gotten one for my birthday!) Right, tumbling walls of bougainvillea beneath Mexican flags.

More from the Puerto Vallarta Botanical Gardens. Left, a piñata (now wishing I had gotten one for my birthday!) Right, tumbling walls of bougainvillea beneath Mexican flags.

Hummingbirds, my birthday dining companions.

Hummingbirds, my birthday dining companions.

For sale at the Puerto Vallarta Botanical Gardens, tchotchkes, as my father would have called them. But the sentiment is nice.

For sale at the Puerto Vallarta Botanical Gardens, tchotchkes, as my father would have called them. But the sentiment is nice.

At the hotel. Dining doesn’t get much more beachfront than this. Fresh ceviche, calamari, octopus, scallops, plenty of lime & avocado. And champagne, of course.

At the hotel. Dining doesn’t get much more beachfront than this. Fresh ceviche, calamari, octopus, scallops, plenty of lime & avocado. And champagne, of course.

A white heron ambles along the metallic-tone coast.

A white heron ambles along the metallic-tone coast.

Sunset & silhouette in Puerto Vallarta.

Sunset & silhouette in Puerto Vallarta.

A record — “I was here” — until the next wave, at least. Yeah, that's a metaphor.

A record — “I was here” — until the next wave, at least. Yeah, that’s a metaphor.

Click Puerto Vallarta, Mexico | Chameleon Light for the corresponding blog post of the journey.

*

Want to follow in my footsteps?

Visit…
Puerto Vallarta Botanical Gardens

Eat & drink & maybe stay…
Garza Blanca Resort (order from the poolside bar ONLY, don’t bother with anything else at the hotel)

*
Leave a comment

Thursday

The first thing I do is turn off the air conditioner and never turn it on again. I forgot how much I’ve missed the tropical parts of the world. The lush, wet greenness of jungle foliage. The air itself: its skin-temperature humidity, its scent of rain and gardenias.

And God, I’ve missed the ocean. I’ve missed watching the body of it swell and curl into waves, the way white foam laces the shore as the tide recedes. Most of all I’ve missed the sound of it.

The roar of the sea, the heat, the welcome margarita on an empty stomach. It’s a recipe for somnolence, especially after 3 hours of sleep and a full day of travel. Even so, I wake in the middle of the night, my anxieties heavy and wordless. Listening to the tide seems to be grinding them away though, like heavy stones being pounded into grains of sand.

Erosion. This is what I’ve needed.

Friday

My drink is icy and makes my lips taste of strawberries.

Reading The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, I am dispersed among two dream worlds, half of my atoms on the beach in Mexico, half my atoms in Nagasaki in 1799. A delicious kind of cognitive dissonance.

No need for music. Just the sound of the ocean.

But with the attrition of tension, ambition too. Such grand plans in the morning to get out, see the city; by afternoon, to get out and see the rest of the resort; by evening, just to get out from the beach.

Mañana.

Saturday

We walk along the boardwalk at dusk. The places catering to the turistas are mostly empty. 2-for-1 margarita signs flutter in the breeze. The choruses of que pasa señorita? that ring out as I pass sound mournful, not a come-on but a begging for alms. In the nightclubs, neon lights flash across bare floors; pulsating dance music echoes strangely, like footsteps in an empty house.

But just a few streets away from the most artificial part of Puerto Vallarta is its true core. This is the twin-chambered heart of Mexico: family life & religion. On a Saturday night, it turns out, the Catholic Church does better business than the nightclubs.

I follow the sound of a tolling bell to evening mass. A baby-faced young priest stands outside the church doors, sweating in the summer heat. He’s got to be boiling in his heavy black cassock and starched white surplice but he is smiling, laughing, chatting with whoever stops to greet him. When he smiles, especially, he looks so, so young. He must be around my age, I realize. What a different lives we’ve led. Will lead.

The interior of the church is packed. Grandmothers fan themselves with paper programs, babies sleep on their mothers’ shoulders. Children fidget, old men doze. All ages, all generations, extended families all together. The chairs they sit upon are old and plastic, “Corona Extra” printed on the back. But the church’s stucco walls are whitewashed and crisp, their gilded trim without a chip or flake. There may not be much money here, but there is clearly pride.

The worshippers begin to sing a hymn, their voices artless and strong.

Tomorrow it will be my 25th birthday. I think to myself: here I am, on a warm summer night in Mexico. Maybe I’m supposed to be doing tequila shots and partying on the boardwalk. Instead I am sitting in a church, listening to evening mass in a language I don’t even speak.

And I like it this way. I know that about myself now. If doing this – and knowing that – is what it means to get older, I like that too.

Sunday

The afternoon of my 25th birthday, I wander around the Puerto Vallarta Botanical Gardens. We are twenty minutes inland from the sea and the sounds here are the sounds of the jungle: the buzz of insects, the call of birds. We take refuge from the noontime sun at the restaurant on-site, sharing homemade vanilla ice cream and Patron with slices of lime on the rim of the glass. Hummingbirds hover around us, drinking their own kind of nectar from feeders.

We spend a long time chatting with the waiters. All come from huge families: brothers and sisters by the half dozen – each – and extended families blooming into triple digits. I don’t tell them that I can count the entirety of my extended family on a single hand. I don’t tell anyone I am thinking of a single member of that family when they bring me the ice cream with the birthday candle in it.

I take my time making the wish. After all, we have the whole afternoon ahead of us. I wish it were a lifetime.

Monday

The last few days I haven’t bothered to look at a clock. I get a weird sense of pleasure out of judging the passage of time by the changing light. The ocean is a chameleon, shifting colors to match the sky.

Without any appointments or meetings or places to be, afternoon stretches shapelessly. My phone doesn’t even work most of the time, nor does my iPad. Deprived of a network connection, these sophisticated electronic tools have been pared down to the essentials: instant camera, sand-dusted library. I like them better this way.

Our final meal is on the beach. Champagne and seared scallops, fresh ceviche.  Of the ocean, by the ocean. Fading sunlight gilds the water. I will miss these long summer evenings, the equatorial heat even after the sun goes down.

I linger after dinner for one last sunset. The sky is the color of rose and lavender smoke. The water darkens. It’s been a good birthday, I think. I try to imagine what life will look like at the half-century mark.

Who am I kidding, though? I don’t even know what birthday number 26 will look like.

Nothing is permanent but change, it’s true.

But at least this is true also: wherever I find the shore, I can hear the sound of the ocean.

To many more happy birthdays on many more oceans.

Click Puerto Vallarta, Mexico | Chameleon Light in Pictures for the corresponding visuals of the journey.   

*

Want to follow in my footsteps?

Visit…
Puerto Vallarta Botanical Gardens

Eat & drink & maybe stay…
Garza Blanca Resort (order from the poolside bar ONLY, don’t bother with anything else at the hotel)

*
1 Comment
Obscenely beautiful weather. We brought it from Southern California, I guess?

Obscenely beautiful weather. We brought it from Southern California, I guess?

Left, how can you not love a cheese named after Sir Francis Drake? Right, the Ferry Building against uncharacteristically cloudless blue skies.

Left, how can you not love a cheese named after Sir Francis Drake? Right, the Ferry Building against uncharacteristically cloudless blue skies.

Cherries glistening like a pile of rubies. Summer produce is the best.

Cherries glistening like a pile of rubies. Summer produce is the best.

At the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market, a lucky customer is handed new round of fresh bread, just plucked from the basket.

At the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market, a lucky customer is handed new round of fresh bread, just plucked from the basket.

View from the Ferry Building, sailboats on the bay. The weather was ridiculous(ly amazing.)

View from the Ferry Building, sailboats on the bay. The weather was ridiculous(ly amazing.)

Raw sampler at Bar Crudo. So pretty, yet so quickly & inelegantly decimated by me.

Raw sampler at Bar Crudo. So pretty, yet so quickly & inelegantly decimated by me.

Left, a Pisco sour, and right, a Pimms Cup, at 15 Romolo. For my California palate there is no such thing as too much fresh citrus juice in a cocktail.

Left, a Pisco sour, and right, a Pimms Cup, at 15 Romolo. For my California palate there is no such thing as too much fresh citrus juice in a cocktail.

Two dozen oysters, fresh lemon slices, Cholula hot sauce, and some cilantro-y thing (that’s the scientific term), chased with champagne. Aka, a well-balanced meal.

Two dozen oysters, fresh lemon slices, Cholula hot sauce, and some cilantro-y thing (that’s the scientific term), chased with champagne. Aka, a well-balanced meal.

Click San Francisco, CA | Fresh is Best for the corresponding blog post of the journey.

*

Want to follow in my footsteps?

Eat…
Ferry Plaza Farmers Market (breakfast & lunch) | Hog Island Oyster Co. (lunch) | Bar Crudo (dinner) | The House (dinner)

Drink…

Bourbon & Branch | 15 Romolo

*
1 Comment

“Fresh” seems to be the keyword for my experiences in San Francisco dining & drinking. Fresh seafood is omnipresent, and fresh citrus juices – a veritable garden’s worth of fresh produce, actually – can be found in any given drink. It’s all about simple methods of preparation that speak of supreme confidence in the quality of the ingredients.  It happens to be one of my favorite approaches to food and I found no shortage of opportunities to experience it in San Francisco.

Ferry Plaza Farmers Market

The Ferry Plaza Farmers Market is like any local farmers market – on steroids. Vendors sell everything from fresh fruits and vegetables to local artisanal cheeses, honey, olive oil, and freshly baked bread, while food stands offer a variety of cooked options. Follow your nose – or trust in the wisdom of crowds and pick whatever seems most popular – and you can have an inexpensive yet delicious morning or afternoon of eating. Yes, it’s crowded, especially if you get the kind of gorgeous weather I’m lucky enough to encounter, but there is always room enough to enjoy great views of the bay.

Bar Crudo

“It’s a lot for one person. Is that okay?” Ordering a whole roasted branzino for oneself apparently leads to such questions, especially when it’s just one course among several. (At least those were shared?) There’s also a sampler of Arctic char, scallop, butterfish, and ono, along with a cup of unexpectedly & pleasantly bright seafood chowder. Fresh fish prepared simply & well, particularly when accompanied by a great wine selection, is really all it takes to make me happy. I only manage a glass of champagne to drink, but seeing how many of my fellow patrons are enjoying various beers it seems that side of the list is well worth exploring next time.

Bourbon & Branch

The progenitor of the speakeasy movement is still going strong. Having to speak the proper password to enter feels a bit gimmicky but the rest is a nice evocation of the Prohibition era: jazz standards, flickering candlelight, and most importantly, great cocktails. I try both the seasonal offerings (the cucumber gimlet – refreshing, crisp, perfect for summer) and an old standard (the French 75 – solidly executed) and am impressed by both. Between the intimate booths, the sexy lighting, and a cocktail menu deserving of copious sampling – not to mention the ban on cell phones – this would be a great place for a date.

The House

This cozy little place serves cuisine under a label that could strike fear and déjà vu into the hearts of restaurant-goers – “Asian fusion” – but fortunately it’s inventive and well-executed here. My wasabi house noodles with steak combine unexpectedly complementary flavors, rich without being overly heavy. (Side note – those with a car, beware: trying to find parking nearby is fiendish in an Old Testament, trials of Job kind of way.)

15 Romolo

Up a small alley in a bar that looks like an old saloon, I unexpectedly discover a perfect Pimms Cup: an English summer in a glass. Crisp cucumber, mint leaves, fresh ginger and lemon, a generous slug of gin – California sensibilities applied to a quintessentially British drink. I used to live in the countryside in Surrey, England, and this drink makes me long to return to it, to lay on the lush grassy hillside with a picnic basket, good company, and a pitcher of this same libation in tow.

Hog Island Oyster Co.

Two dozen oysters and champagne by a silvery, drizzly, foggy bay: the perfect send-off to my adventures in San Francisco dining. Located in the Ferry Building, so try to snag a table with a view of the bay, or sit outside if the weather permits.

Click San Francisco, CA | Fresh is Best in Pictures for the corresponding visuals of the journey.

*

Want to follow in my footsteps?

Eat…
Ferry Plaza Farmers Market (breakfast & lunch) | Hog Island Oyster Co. (lunch) | Bar Crudo (dinner) | The House (dinner)

Drink…

Bourbon & Branch | 15 Romolo

*
1 Comment