‘Walter’s beat up van pulled discreetly into a parking lot adjacent
to a low-rise apartment building on Lander’s Street, in Southwest San
Francisco. One block north of the San Francisco Mission, perpendicular to
Market, Lander’s runs between 14th and 16th.
It was almost 6 am. According to our
guidebook, Jan (who’d earned the right to take full charge of mapping our
hostel stays) figured we were close to one mile from the hostel. Abiding by
hostel procedures firmly outlined in the book, we’d have to wait until 5 pm
before check in.
Carole kindly offered her apartment to
anyone needing a place to crash for a few hours or wash up. Everybody,
including Walter, took Carole up on her offer. Alongside capable Snowmaker at
the wheel, our first mate had been instrumental in aiding our group to safety,
not once complaining about fatigue, hunger or requiring a pee break. Despite
Walter's traps, we were grateful for our quick thinking cohorts.
Small and sparse, otherwise, the apartment
was clean and cozy. Following a short introduction to Carole's roommate and
lover, Willow, a tall Hispanic woman in her late thirties, rolling out our
sleeping bags on the living room floor, Jan and I attempted to grab some
shuteye. Others snatched vacant couches and chairs scattered about the room.
Stretching out after crunching into cramped quarters dreaming up ways to avoid
Walter’s hulking, threatening form was a luxury. Neither one of us wanted to go
through that again. Especially Jan.
Slumber was short-lived. Shortly after
laying down our heads, sunlight crept through the blinds, casting its scope
along the surface of the floor. Illuminating tiny dust particles floating in
front of a picture window, its span engulfed the entire room. Yielding to the
morning radiance, despite having spent more than eighteen hours with a bunch of
people in a rusty van, surprisingly, I felt rested.
Members of our grungy group took turns using
the bathroom for a quick whiz, crap, and scrub up. Thanking Carole and Willow
for their hospitality, Jan and I bade our fellow road warriors goodbye. Soon, we
would disperse in different directions, vanishing from sight, as if the entire
journey was an apparition. With more gall than brains, Walter asked Jan to stay
in touch, telling her she’d be welcome to crash at his buddy’s place whenever
she returned to Vancouver. Practically pushing me out the door of Carole’s
apartment, my friend couldn’t get away fast enough. Stepping out onto the
brilliant concrete sidewalk, we considered how to play the day.
First priority was to find something to eat.
Since dining on a turkey feast and all the trimmings in Aldergrove 48-hours
before, Jan and I hadn’t consumed anything other than Nanaimo bars, pop, and
candy. Jane’s meal felt like a lifetime away.
Needing to get our bearings, looking around,
I stared down at the beat up pavement, a platform for damaged, overstuffed
garbage containers. Graffiti-laden brick walls barely disguised grubby
buildings. I began to panic. Maybe having a wild hair about travelling to the
Golden State had been in haste.
Having been away from home eight weeks, to
date, we hadn’t dealt with anything insurmountable. A couple of close calls
were the extent of it. However, morning light has a way of throwing a beacon on
cracks often overlooked after dusk. Had our trip to San Francisco been less
complicated, we’d have felt more optimistic. There was no point dwelling on the
past. Jan and I were BIG girls – new to a city upheld by its reputation for
liberal attitudes. From what we could tell in a very small window of time, San
Francisco surely had verve. Hoping to attach ourselves to that free spirited
fiber, excitement awaited around every corner.
Though sunny and warm, a hard wind blew in
off the bay, motivating us to dig sweaters out of our packs – just in case.
Finding a grocery-gas station, we cashed in two $20 traveller’s cheques, and
picked out a couple of bagels at the adjoining breakfast bar. Packs secured on
our backs, Jan and I walked over to Mission Delores Park to collect our
thoughts. According to Jan’s guidebook, the green space was one of several
parks scattered throughout San Francisco, Golden Gate being the largest. At one
point or another, we’d try to visit them all.
Sitting on the grass
mid-morning, eyes darting everywhere, we were struck by the sedate atmosphere.
Overhead, smeared across a sapphire blue sky, jet streams created an impression
of flecks on glass. Other than enjoy the pulsating sunshine and spring foliage,
people didn’t appear to have anything pressing. Several feet away on the
flattened grass, catching winks, slouched a pair of drunks. To our immediate left,
an African American couple played peek-a-boo with a toddler. This was Tuesday
morning. Late April. Not an official holiday. Why weren’t people at work?
Around us, men, women and children engaged in varying groups: eating, snoozing,
reading, as if time had stopped. Having been raised in an environment wherein
the rapid pace of the status quo often eclipses the simpler elements of life, I
wasn’t used to this.
Leaving Mission Delores Park, lugging our
packs like storm troopers for the better part of the afternoon, cautiously, Jan
and I roved the neighbourhood, people-watching, window shopping, making mental
observations about the rougher brand of hippies, freaks, and greasers loitering
outside of storefronts, greasy spoons and head shops. Marching up and down the
hilly San Francisco streets, doggedness in our steps, we sampled treats in Just
Desserts, assessed the frontage at Modern Times Book Shop on 24thStreet,
and purchased food items from Safeway. Despite being whipped by raw, relentless
wind gusts off the bay, my jeans and plaid flannel shirt kept me comfortable.
Mid-afternoon, winds calmed. Filling our nostrils with an intermingling sample
of salt and ocean fish blowing in from Fisherman’s Wharf, the balmy sea breeze
reaffirmed why we’d travelled to California.
Jan and I returned to Delores Park. In one
hour, we would head over to 101 Steiner Street. Check in at The Holy Order of
MANS youth hostel. Having read rave reviews about the place in our guidebook,
according to Jan, a maven in her field, the hostel came highly touted.
Disregarding the questionable neighbourhood and unfamiliar name for the place,
the residence we’d assumed, was some kind of holy monastery doubling as a
shelter for travelling youths. After six weeks living at the Y, anything would
be an improvement.
Besides, reviews don’t lie.
Charting our map of San Francisco, close to
5:30 pm, Jan and I found ourselves at the foot of a narrow, Victorian style,
four-story turreted structure painted grey. A couple of fan palms and a single
Maple tree stood on opposite sides of the residence. 101 Steiner Street was the
correct address; yet the building didn’t appear to represent a youth hostel –
more like somebody’s private home. Adjacent to Duboce Park in the lower Haight
district, The Holy Order of MANS Youth Hostel was stationed in a locale my
parents would consider a less than desirable part of the city. On the outside
at least, the joint appeared A-Okay.
Climbing the front steps toward the porch,
putting nebulous first impressions aside, Jan rang the buzzer. We waited.
Appearing from inside the vestibule, a mild-faced young woman wearing long
brunette hair parted in the middle and fastened at the back of her head, pulled
open the screen door. She introduced herself as Reverend Mary. Appearing at her
side, in bushy beard, and dark, horn-rimmed glasses stood a late-twenties dead
ringer for a priest. His name was Brother Bruce. Both were outfitted in
traditional Catholic style clergy garb. I studied the couple’s attire more
closely. Fastened with a woven jute belt, Mary’s powder blue tunic covered
everything from her neck to her ankles. Her counterpart, a white clerical
collar creasing his chin, was dressed neatly, in jet-black shirt and black
pants. Hand-carved wooden crosses attached to leather cords fell at their
midsections. Possessing enormously translucent eyes, Mary and Bruce beamed like
a pair of godly Caucasians.
Believing for a moment that we’d trespassed
into some sort of hard line Holy Roller church rather than the folksy peace and
love communal envisaged from the name of the hostel, I hoped there wouldn’t be
reason to leave. It had been an exhausting last couple of days.
“We’re looking for a youth hostel.” Jan
piped up. “Are we at the right address?” Reaching out to squeeze our hands, an
assurance that we had not made an error, Mary beckoned the two of us inside.
Apparent by the bemused looks upon their faces, our hosts were used to confounded guests.'
Tapes from California:
Teenage Road Tripping, 1976 © 2017 Jill C. Nelson
