Dave Miller

People always expect the greatest things when they go on vacation; I can assume that these individuals
had a similar, wonderful experience, being a tourist surrounded by sun with an agenda all their own.

San Francisco is one laid back place. People have enough time and say, "Bless you," to any individual
on the street that had happened to sneeze in the general vicinity. The guy even thanked him as if it
were commonplace. Even the bums were more real; I remember one sign an individual was holding,
bouncing actually, in the entrance to the BART station at Powell and Mason reading,
"Why Lie, I want beer."

If you would be so kind, click through the dates to your left, and I'll do my best in retelling our trip.

If parts need clarification, or something's not there, or you want to know more about something e-mail me (via the link on the frame to your left or manually: davidm@student.umass.edu) because this page is very much in-progress as I add better pictures (scans of Chris's pictures) and other cool stuff. Originally I intended to have this be a collection of pictures, but it has obviously become more than that.

Saturday, March 11, 2000

The plane ride was an exausting six and a half hours, but I really didn't care too much. The view out of the plane at the Rockies was proof enough for me that we were actually flying to the west coast (rather than hovering over logan airport while they changed the scenery.

Chris and I landed at around noon, leaving plenty of time for us to explore this urban phenonenon, a haven for any sort of person. After taking a van to the youth hostile in Union Square. A gentleman from yuppie-ville Chicago told us that the city is a photographer's dream. It definitely is.

right: taken from an ivied stairway between two dead end streets (one of many, beautifully decorated with flora) looking back toward the Bay Bridge through Russian Hill.

Below: typical row homes in the downtown area as we were walking up Mason St towards the water (Fisherman's Wharf). My father says the women in San Francisco have the greatest legs; he then told us we would find out why trekking through the city: enormous hills in a large city (that 200 years ago was nothing but sand dunes).

I was walking a little too quickly, and my legs wore

out pretty quickly - excitement is only limited by physicality.

Finally, after weaving around for a couple of hours,having been exausted not only from walking but also from having our respective asses numbed by the plane ride, we hit our first landmark of the pretty city: Lomard Street, famed as being the windiest street in the world.

We made it to the wharf around sunset to enjoy a busy, mild, Saturday evening of local street performers (saxaphones and guitars and drums. The architecture struck me as being very much like Miami with class, only hillier, and cooler. Actually, forget Miami entirely. The city is its own: young and a true representation of what I hope America is. Tired, and on EST, we fell asleep around eight.

Sunday, March 12, 2000

In retrospect, I think in was Sunday that really did me in. We started from the Hostel and walked down a combination of Mission and Market streets, through the Mission and Castro (Lationa and Gay, respectively) areas stopping for lunch at a little Mediterranean place in Castro. We headed back up Market St. to the Hostle to rest our Legs.

These two pictures above were taken on Market St. in the financial district.

Some pink restaurant.

Left: On Mission near the SFMOMA (SanFran Museum of Modern Art in SOMA (South of Market, supposedly the NOHO of San Francisco).

In the middle of the city, we ran across the Yerba Buena (Good Herb as I am told) gardens, which provided for some nice pictures of the surrounding skyscrapers and other non-traditional structures.

The images on the right take you through the Mission and Castro sections of the city. A little "seedy" as I've heard, but still very safe. It's funny how within blocks a city can change appearance so quickly.

So, after resting our aching feet, we were ready to explore more heading northeast from the hostle towards Coit tower. On the way, we paused by Levi's park (where you'll see a picture of Chris standing by a sculpture, some shots of a fountain and a quaint little park area.) on Embarcadero along the water between the wharf and the Ferry Building. We climbed over 200 stairs to reach Coit tower, and that about did it for me so we headed back to the hostle through Chinatown.

You could walk on the fountain, so I did to get in some artsy shots....

Cute little park

200+ steps for what? Some monument to firemen built by some rich dude's wife in memory of the rich dude.

Coit tower and the walk through Chinatown

	The plane ride was an exausting six and a half hours, but I really didn't care too much. The view out of the plane at the Rockies was proof enough for me that we were actually flying to the west coast (rather than hovering over logan airport while they changed the scenery.
Chris and I landed at around noon, leaving plenty of time for us to explore this urban phenonenon, a haven for any sort of person. After taking a van to the youth hostile in Union Square. A gentleman from yuppie-ville Chicago told us that the city is a photographer's dream. It definitely is. right: taken from an ivied stairway between two dead end streets (one of many, beautifully decorated with flora) looking back toward the Bay Bridge through Russian Hill. Below: typical row homes in the downtown area as we were walking up Mason St towards the water (Fisherman's Wharf). My father says the women in San Francisco have the greatest legs; he then told us we would find out why trekking through the city: enormous hills in a large city (that 200 years ago was nothing but sand dunes).

I was walking a little too quickly, and my legs wore	out pretty quickly - excitement is only limited by physicality.

Finally, after weaving around for a couple of hours,having been exausted not only from walking but also from having our respective asses numbed by the plane ride, we hit our first landmark of the pretty city: Lomard Street, famed as being the windiest street in the world.

	We made it to the wharf around sunset to enjoy a busy, mild, Saturday evening of local street performers (saxaphones and guitars and drums. The architecture struck me as being very much like Miami with class, only hillier, and cooler. Actually, forget Miami entirely. The city is its own: young and a true representation of what I hope America is. Tired, and on EST, we fell asleep around eight.