Rocks and Water - Oakland
I suppose the comfort of
the bed and the fresh Pacific air conspired to keep me in slumberland, because
the early chirp of my Palm Pilot’s alarm function didn’t seem to faze me. It wasn’t until 7 that I awoke. I had visions of riding one of the complimentary Specialized
bikes at The Highlands, but as it so often does, my keyboard won out over
conquering the hills of Carmel. I was
already three days’ behind in writing, and I’ve found some of the nuances get
lost if I wait too long, and the days seem to pile up like Lucy Ricardo’s
chocolates if I don’t keep up with them.
So I grabbed my laptop and sat down on the balcony overlooking a foggy
Monterey peninsula. Fortunately, my head
was much clearer than the coastline was.
Thoughts and words flowed, and it wasn’t until about an hour and a half
later that I heard “Good morning, Daddy” softly welcoming me from the suite’s
living room. It was easy to stop what I
was doing, even though fully entrenched in the task, to jump in and spend a few
moments hugging Parker and massaging his sweet fuzzy head.
Austin declared that he
wasn’t interested in breakfast; that he
was still full from last night’s dinner.
So, Parker and I took the short walk to the California Kitchen, and
enjoyed a marvelous breakfast overlooking the foggy coastline. Our table on the rail was close enough to one
of the outdoor heaters overhead, which took the bite off the 52 degree chill.
After finishing up more
writing, I filled up the Jacuzzi for Parker, showered, and loaded up the
Touareg in time for our late check-out at 12:30. We were headed only as far as Oakland this
day. We had a game that night to see the
A’s play the O’s. Other than a little
stop in Carmel-by-the Sea, it was to be a light day.
Austin opted to stay in
the car and Gameboy, rather than walk around Carmel. Parker and I enjoyed many of the galleries. Carmel features some of the most incredible
artwork, gallery after gallery, I’ve ever seen.
I saw one artist’s work that really caught my eye, Clifford Bailey, who
did a series of abstract oils of people in sort of a jazzy setting, some
blowing trombones, and some sipping martinis.
Once taking a look at the prices, it was easy to enjoy them for what
they were and keep walking. Parker found
some xylophone-type instruments carved from wood that he enjoyed playing, while
I wandered around another gallery. I did
come upon a pair of lamps that ended my four year passive quest to replace two
lamps in my living room that I’ve always felt were overbearing in size for the
50’s era tables they sat upon. It took a
$200 discount offering and a nod from Parker to make my big purchase of the
trip, which would be delivered shortly after we got back home. Each lamp was handmade from wrought iron and
crystal, with the shade being an opaque autumnal affair, signed by the artist. Three rather large crystals that soak up
light from the bulb drip down like giant water droplets, making them for art
unto themselves. I had no qualms or
buyer’s remorse. They were perfect (I
think).
We left Carmel and the
cool overcast temperatures and found ourselves in Castroville, the artichoke
capital of the world. A gigantic green
artichoke and a sign “fried artichokes” were enough to cause the traveling
Angeli to make a quick stop for these incredibly delicious morsels at The
Artichoke. When one sees miles and miles
of a field of crops like these, and begins to fathom that that a vegetable like
artichokes aren’t consumed that often by that many families, or on the menu at
that many restaurants, one begins to get the feeling of how large this country
really is. While I am sure some were
destined to be imported, still, this was still a lot of artichokes.
Given that it was a Friday
afternoon, traffic treated us kindly on the Nimitz Freeway leading us to
Oakland. We were staying at a Holiday
Inn this evening, which I’d chosen for its proximity to Network Associates
Coliseum, where the A’s and Raiders play in front of some of the most
passionate—and crazy—sports fans in the country.
Checking in, I was amused
at the buzz in the lobby created by what turned out to be a 50th
anniversary celebration. All the men
were dressed in white formals and white shoes, with the women mostly in
gold. Even the kids were featuring while
suits. Later, while scurrying to the
front desk to see if I’d left my cellphone there (which was later found under
Parker’s San Diego Padre hat), one of the daughters of the honorees was walking
next to me, and flattered me by asking “Excuse me, you’re a man (glad she
noticed), so can you tell me how this dress looks on me? I’ve worked so hard and it’s my parents’ 50th
anniversary tonight”. So here I was in
the middle of Oakland, California, having not been with a woman in too long a
time (it’s always too long for me in certain regards), being asked by a rather
buxom black woman who had obviously fussed for days on this, what I
thought. “You look FABULOUS… I mean it
really”, I said. “That dress is perfect
for you”… She came over to me, her vulnerability seemed to wash away by a huge
smile, and thanked me by proceeding to swipe the dandruff off my
shoulders. “Here, sweetie, doesn’t your
woman take care of this for you?”
The woman at the front
desk had told me that the ballpark was steps away, nodding as I asked her if
five minutes was all it took to walk there.
The boys and I were ten minutes into the walk when we realized we should
have been directed to take a left onto Coliseum Way, and had to backtrack in
this rather odd looking neighborhood, passing broken bottles on the sidewalk,
and one broken Jesus figurine (someone had really been let down, I suppose), and
no one else at all walking to the game, which I thought was really odd. We made sat our butts down in the seats as
Tim Hudson threw his last warm-up pitch and took in the aura of a completely
different stadium than any we’d visited before.
Network Associates Coliseum is a lot of things, but definitely two of
them—wide and low--save for the gigantic structure in the outfield housing
dozens of suites that most obviously was built with Raider revenue in
mind. I explained to Austin that this
was definitely a pitcher’s park because of the unusually vast foul territories,
which allowed pitchers to gain more outs and give hitters fewer second chances
at the plates. Because the stands are so
low and wide, the announced crowd of only 16,000 on this perfect California
night surprised me. I would have thought
close to double that number were with us.
I guess it felt like it at first, because the $30 seats I’d bought were
in the middle of an aisle, which I usually don’t like at all. This was no exception. While close to the field, I felt
claustrophobic. I was made to feel even
more so when a family that could have just left the set of Jerry Springer sat
down behind us. It was easy to notice
them, because the nucleus of them was a gigantic and boisterous woman who
banged my back and head from behind about four times before she landed with a
thud in her seat. She proceeded to
massage my shoulders as she bellowed, “Sorry sweetie, didn’t mean to do that”. Listening to her continue with her family
with conversation as tantalizing as “I ain’t been here since before them seats
was put up in that there corner” at about eight on the volume
meter—non-stop—was enough to start my mind buzzing about to where we would be
moving to escape this. The odd thing
was, as I turned to take in the family, we had one obviously retarded man
sitting with this woman to her right, but to her left was her son, who was
accompanied by his wife, and his end of the conversation was held up fine with
articulate comments, nary a stray double-negative to be heard. I didn’t get it, but it didn’t matter,
because as soon as we were done with our mediocre dogs (a slight notch above
the others on this trip, but still not approaching anything memorable) and our garlic
fries—the staple at bay area games—we moved back about ten rows and found a
small haven of serenity—three seats on the aisle with no one in front of us—at
least for a while—and a little higher up for better perspective.
Once again, we were
watching our third rather boring game in a row. No runs and about five hits total going into
the seventh inning—which was upon us like lightning—it only took an hour and a
half to get to the seventh inning stretch!
That’s fast, and very unusual—especially odd for us since the Padre game
was completed in just 2 hours and 15 minutes.
There was nothing rewarding to be gained by scoreboard watching, as once
again, our Mets were wallowing in the loss column, this time to the
Phillies. I believe it was the fourth in
a row, but am very glad that I am not having much to do with the Mets right
now… I’ll just watch the trade talks in the blurbs I get on my automatic
Emails, and take a welcome sabbatical from being a true Mets fan again this
summer. Maybe if I stop taking these
trips they’ll fare better, I thought. I
wondered if Art Howe would rather be me, in Network Associates Coliseum right
now, but as the usher pointed out in our discussion, he really had no
choice.
I found most of the
entertainment in the crowd, which featured many true fanatics, often wearing
all green and yellow. A’s fans were true
fans, even if most of them were lined up by the thousands waiting for beer out
in the breezeway. My eyes found about
four female fans, all nudgy and smoochy with their boyfriends, who were simply
standouts among the relatively disheveled and blue-collar crowd. Very laid-back California, but with an
attitude.
I had asked the usher
about getting a cab back to the hotel, and he directed me to security. When I asked the cops at security about
whether it was safe to walk back to the hotel, they told me I should definitely
not attempt that walk in the dark, and that would could catch a cab at the BART
(Bay Area Rapid Transit) station beyond center field.
In the eight inning, the A’s finally got something going. With a
man on second, Terrence Long nailed a shot to the right field corner and scored
on a throwing error by the cut off man trying to gun down Ramon Hernandez at
the plate. When the Geronimo Gil was
tackled by Hernandez, the ball continued beyond him for what seemed like miles
just to the right of the Orioles’ dugout, allowing Long to score all the way
from second. The people in front of us
thought it was an inside the park home run, but alas, this is not little
league, and it was scored a double and a two base error on Melvin Mora, the
shortstop. I might point out that Melvin
Mora is now leading the American League in hitting, and was basically given to
the Orioles two years ago by the Mets in exchange for borrowing Mike Bordick to
fill in for Rey Ordonez for a couple of months.
Bordick made no impact whatsoever on the Mets. Steve Phillips should never work in baseball
again. Maybe we should sick an
A’s/Raiders fan on him.
The cops had made it sound
as though there were going to be lines of cabs waiting at the BART
station. We only saw one, and he was
across a busy street. Parker pointed out
an off-duty cab, and I waved him down.
He asked us if our destination was close, which I answered in the
affirmative. As we sped away, I wondered
whythe the meter went up in odd increments (we were at $2.24 after a block, and
as we made a right turn onto an even bleaker street, Austin quickly pointed out
that it was 24 cents for each 36 seconds, and 24 cents for each quarter mile. As we discussed whether that was a “whichever
comes first” scenario (far be it from the cab driver to explain the terms), we
realized we were come up on a railroad overpass, with flashing gate down, only
to be staring at a STOPPED freight train.
After two cars in front of us [TICK] pulled U-turns and sped away, I
suggested to the driver [TICK] that he do the same. He refused, saying that [TICK] the only way
back was [TICK] by the stadium and into the [TICK] traffic there—that this was
a better idea—to wait here, and apparently decide between what was more
rewarding, wondering when a stopped freight train was going to move, or play
the “how far will the meter go?” game in which I was to be the only loser in
this fixed contest.
After about four dollars,
the train began a very slow lumber to the left, slowly gaining speed. We should have counted the cars, but all I
could think of was this was the longest freight train we’d seen on this
trip. We’d passed quite a few, and while
it would have been fun to see some of the two mile long ones we saw last year
in the middle of Nebraska, this wasn’t the moment to spot it. After another few bucks, the driver now
decided to display his loyalty to his customers by passing the Toyota on the
left over the tracks, scoffing at at the Toyota driver’s pace as we began a
Bullitt-type ride back to the Holiday Inn.
We paid the fare, which
ended up being more than parking in the easy lot at the park would have been.
Walking through the lobby
of the hotel, I spotted golden-dressed gal from before, and noted a very
puzzled Parker as he watched me ask her how the dress worked out. She grabbed me, obviously very loose after
three hours of anniversary partying, and began to dance with me right there on
the Holiday Inn carpet. Her cronies,
probably just as loose as she was, didn’t notice this relatively bizarre scene.
A few steps, and a
well-wishing nod, and I gracefully bowed out.
Parker and I were on our way back to our room. He thinks his Dad is nuts.
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