Other Cities Only Make Me Love You Best

Los Angeles, California

We flew home from Kona through San Francisco on November 1st. Just after take-off, our pilot announced that he was going to try to pick up a radio station broadcasting the fifth game of the World Series. If he was able to do this, he would patch it through so that we could listen to the game through our earphones. He was finally successful at doing this around the fourth inning. It was a crackly transmission, but it got better as we proceeded towards the mainland.

Now for those of you who don't have a wide bandwidth when it comes to baseball, I should probably provide the back story that the two teams competing in the World Series were the San Francisco Giants (yea!) and the Texas Rangers (boo!). Game five was crucial to the Rangers. If they lost, the Giants would clinch the World Series. And, again, we were on a plane bound for San Francisco. Presumably, a lot of the passengers were heading home. So, although we were way up in the air, we were ostensibly in Giants' territory, and would be until we caught our connecting flight home to Los Angeles (necessitated by the elimination of our usual direct flight from LAX to Kona. This is probably more information than you need to know, but you know how I am about parentheticals).


When the Giants finally scored, scattered applause broke out throughout the plane. When Wilson (who had come in at the bottom of the ninth in relief) threw his final strike-out, most, if not all, of the passengers applauded. It was cool. When we landed in San Francisco about ninety minutes later, they were already hawking Giants World Champions tee-shirts. Now, I was all for the Giants winning the series, as you've probably figured out by the above parenthetical commentary. You see, currently in Los Angeles, we don't really have a baseball team. We have a baseball divorce. I could fill you in on the divorce proceedings of the owners of the Los Angeles Dodgers, but really, it is all too dismal. So, if you're interested in this tawdry mess, google the Dodgers and/or the McCourts. Suffice it to say that once the Dodgers finished circling the drain this season, we started looking at what was going on with the Giants. I was hoping for a Giants/Yankees series, but somehow the Rangers took the Yankees out. And then there were two.


I was for the Giants all through postseason. You see, though I am from Los Angeles, born and raised, and represent the third-generation in my family who were born in Southern California; while I've always known that there is this huge San Francisco/LA rivalry, and that San Francisco totally disses us for stealing their water . . . I like San Francisco. Enough so, that I almost got married there (though not to Billy, and the less said about that situation the better). Plus, my dad grew up in Palo Alto, and we always spent a lot of time up in the Bay Area. I've got friends there. And I've always had a great time when visiting the city.

So, I was thoroughly enjoying all this San Francisco revelry. It even reminded me of a trip Billy and I took in the early 90s. Billy had received a bonus, which funded a long weekend to San Francisco, where we celebrated his birthday. It was one of those trips where magic was to be found at every turn.


Although we had rented a car, we never took it out of the hotel garage until it was time to return to the airport. We walked a lot, used public transportation during the day, and took taxis at night. We had some memorable meals at restaurants including Postrio, which was in the Prescott Hotel where we were staying. We listened to a pianist playing Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes until early morning at the Redwood Room in the Clift Hotel.


Our favorite day was Saturday when, after breakfast at the hotel, we walked a short distance to Union Square to shop. At F.A.O. Schwartz, we purchased The Amazing 8-Ball -- our first in what would become a long line of them, purchasing them both as replacements and gifts. Afterwards, we caught the BART over to Embarcadero Center. Then we began to walk. We walked all the way down Battery to Embarcadero, stopping for lunch at Il Fornaio. Then we walked some more, past the piers and the wharf, all the way to Ghirardelli Square. Eventually, we caught the Hyde Street cable car and rode it back to Union Square. By this time, we'd been gone all day, and had probably walked way beyond a 10K. Our feet were sore, but more pressing than that . . . we were thirsty.


We fell into the hotel and hung a quick right into the bar, where we sat down on bar stools and ordered two Red Tail Ales. The bartender who took our order informed us that the restaurant bar was hosting a private event that evening for MTV. We were welcome to have a drink while the bartenders were setting up for the party, but soon after they would be closing their doors to the public at large. That was fine with us. We just needed enough time to have a beer . . . or two.


I gazed down into my glass of cloudy, unfiltered ale, marveling at the blessed relief of being off my feet, and frankly, out of my shoes. Meanwhile, Billy got out the 8-Ball we had purchased earlier in the day. He began turning it over, checking out responses presumably to unverbalized questions. It drew the bartenders like moths to a flame.


"Oh look," one of them exclaimed. "An 8-Ball!" We had now collected three bartenders.


"Ask a question," Billy suggested.

One of them volunteered, "Am I going to get out of here before midnight tonight?"

Billy turned the 8-Ball over, and read "Don't count on it."


"OK," another guy said. "I've got one. Is Madonna going to be at this party tonight?"

Billy flipped the ball over. "Ask again later."


The third bartender leaned in. "If Madonna is here, am I going to get lucky with her tonight?"


A quick flip. "Signs point to yes," Billy read. We all laughed.

The first bartender said to Billy, "Now you ask one."


Billy paused, then spoke slowly. "What are the chances of us getting a free round in this bar?"

Billy turned over the 8-Ball, then handed it to the first bartender who read it out loud.

"Outlook good!"

Two of them laughed, then moved away down the bar to get back to work. But, the first bartender turned quickly to the refrigerator where he took out two Red Tail Ales and opened them. Turning back, he plunked them down on the bar in front of us. The other two guys looked back at him.

"Hey," he said. "You don't f#@! with the 8-Ball."

We never did hear whether Madonna made it to the party that night. But, if she did, we're sure our bartender got lucky. The 8-Ball had spoken. Thank you for reading my blog. I knew you would. I asked the 8-Ball about it.