Love It or Leave It: New Orleans

Love it or hate it, New Orleans has one definitive commonality: everyone has something to say about it. From recommendations to warnings, The Big Easy elicits opinions from left and right. While I’ve been to the original Orleans in the Loire Valley, the new version in Louisiana escaped me for all these years for no real reason, so I was happy to take the flood of suggestions rushing in when I headed to NOLA for the first time in early November.

Usually I can check the “leisure” box for my trips, but the start of this one was all business due to a three-day marketing conference for continuing and online education. Landing at Louis Armstrong airport after a painless two hour flight from Denver, I grabbed a cab for $33 to the Central Business District. The Lafayette Hotel—just off Lafayette Square, which acted as a helpful landmark—has an old world charm with French Regency style. My suite was ridiculously spacious with a separate sitting room and wet bar, which made toasting that night’s presidential election results an absolute pleasure. 

Dinner at Mother’s (recommendation #1) was quick, affordable, and above all else: hot damn delightful! The Famous Ferdi, as it’s called, is stuffed with baked ham and roast beef with an au jus so supremely salty and mouthwatering, it more than made up for the fact it fell apart in my hands as I chowed down on the savory sandwich. Make this place your first stop and the rest of your NOLA trip can be a total bust and it won’t even matter. 

The next day I wandered through the French Quarter for my first taste of the Crescent City in broad daylight. A small and quaint café that would go unnoticed save for the explicit directions from Google, Café Fleur de Lis (recommendation #2) served up all the traditional breakfast fixings and a stack of blueberry pancakes with a fluff and a sweetness not often found outside the south. 

Right around the corner I was pleased to find The Michalopoulos Gallery (recommendation #3), a special place recommended by my friend Shelby who was inspired to get back into painting because of this art—work that struck me the moment I saw it through the window. James Michalopoulos is like van Gogh meets Cézanne meets New Orleans with fun yet somewhat haunting images of local architecture, all looking a bit skewed and squished and staggering. 

With food eaten and culture points earned, it was time to learn and network at the UPCEA conference. Luckily marketers know how to enjoy themselves, so the first night a group of us headed straight to Bourbon Street. Once someone in the crowd noted we could drink on the street, we stopped in at Bourbon Live for $12 hurricanes that packed a punch, which is appropriate considering a hurricane tastes like punch punched up with booze. 

After taking in the chaotic scene of the biggest frat party the world has ever seen, we ducked into Oceana Grill and settled in for a lively dinner (with outside drinks still in hand—what the?!). I expected a joint right off Bourbon Street to be overpriced and under value, but my shrimp po’ boy was simple yet tasty, and the rest of the crew lauded the food. The next night we ended up at Café Giovanni for “Italian with a Louisiana flair” that did not come with flair of any variety. While the food was lackluster, the atmosphere made up for it with an opera singer far enough away to be enjoyable and not awkward. 

The last day of the conference didn’t mark my last day in New Orleans, since my friend Kelly decided to fly in and meet me for the weekend. We chose to class it up and stay at Loew’s thanks to a special rate we snagged through some university connections (and they say higher ed doesn’t pay!). We braved Bourbon Street on a Friday night and bee-lined straight to Fritzel’s Jazz Club (recommendation #4), as recommended to me by multiple buddies. The place was hoppin’ and boppin’ to some swinging jazz, but whatever you do: don't dance. Signs were strewn across the club thanking us for not dancing, a fairly bemusing demand from a place with such a buzzing bravado for foot-tappin' tunes. We closed out the night at Daisy Duke’s (recommendation #5), a truly spectacular greasy spoon with a super sloshed clientele—one waiter even resorted to yelling “fire” to wake up a patron who had fallen asleep in his grits. 

Saturday morning started the way every Saturday morning should: with a huge cup of coffee and piping hot beignets from Café du Monde (recommendation #6). However we didn’t go to the main café, but instead a coffee stand with a smaller line and hotter donut. We hopped on the pedestrian ferry and headed over to Algier’s Point (recommendation #7), where we wandered totally enamored by the architecture and quiet avenues. Even though we missed breakfast by five minutes, our meal at Tout de Suite Café (recommendation #8) proved to be one of the more delicious plates of food in a city that presents a myriad of delicious plates of food. 

Back on the other side of the Mississippi River, we attempted to take a bus to the trolley (the trolley on Canal Street is under construction). I say attempt, because after heading in the wrong direction and then getting a mixed message from our bus driver, we gave up and jumped in a cab. This ended up being one of the best decisions possibly ever made in the history of my travel adventures, as our cab driver was the type of character I couldn’t even fictionalize with all my creative juices flowing.  

His name is Buddy Love and that’s exactly how he wants you to see New Orleans—with Love. Without a doubt, Buddy knows every person within a 15 mile radius of New Orleans, Louisiana. If given the opportunity, he’ll take you to the most authentic restaurants the city has to offer and show you the best time you may ever have in your life. This is all speculation of course, and based off of less than 30 minutes of interaction with the fella, but I assure you—Buddy’s the best. If you find yourself in New Orleans, there’s only one number you need to know: 281-841-7668. 

 

He dropped us off at Tracey’s in the Garden District (recommendation #9), after promising to pick us up the next day at 6:30 a.m. for our flight. We downed a few Abita’s while surrounded by a sea of red-shirt wearing Oklahoma football fans glued to the game, then moseyed toward a cemetery before it grew dark. Another cab ride took us over to Louis Armstrong Park, where the Treme Creole Gumbo Festival presented by the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Foundation was rocking. We got there just in time to groove to The Dirty Dozen, a crazy good brass band that just celebrated its 35th anniversary. Their trumpet player appropriately describes the band as follows:

“It ends up being like a pot of gumbo – you drop in a little okra, drop in a little shrimp, you drop in some crabs. Before you know it, you’ve mixed in all these different ingredients and you’ve got a beautiful soup. That was our approach to music early on and it still is today.”

After the performance, we walked to the French Quarter and stood in long line at Coop’s (recommendation #10), but ended up being seated within a few minutes. We kicked off the meal with tangy crabmeat stuffed jalapeno peppers, which laid the foundation for the real meal: rabbit jambalaya (vegetarians need not read on). There’s no telling how long the dish was brewing, but by the time it came out, that traditional Creole flavors was simmered to perfection and the rabbit mixed well with smoked pork sausage. Far and away one of the better (and cheaper!) meals on my NOLA food-cation. 

Before we officially nixed the night, we stopped into Mother’s for a taste of bread pudding and pecan pie. No use pretending this trip wasn’t all about the food and the drinks. There seems to be a known protocol at Mother’s, where you enter on the side and order at the counter. Keep your receipt and they’ll bring you your food, and then when you’re done be sure to exit through the rear door. It’d be intimidating if the servers weren’t all so gosh darn friendly.

A 5:30 wake-up call is not recommended after a week in New Orleans, but what made it bearable was the fact Buddy Love was waiting for us with a big grin and a wave as we checked out. He brightened our day that had only just begun. The ride to the airport was full of tall tales and past exploits, and the best moment came in the form of a drunk dude stumbling near our vehicle. “Can I get a ride?” he muttered, nearly swaying all the way over. “Fool, no! Not with these honey bunnies in the car! Get out of here,” was Buddy’s reply. And THAT’S why you need Buddy Love in your life. With Love on your side, I can’t imagine you’d have a bad time. 

Everyone has an opinion on New Orleans, so here are mine: it’s a mixture of beauty and sadness, luxury and decadence, hope and blight. It's impossible to have a bad meal there and the people tend to lean on the nicer side of humanity. There is so much more to see beyond Bourbon Street, it’s a shame that it gets all the hype (I liked New Orleans—except for the place everyone goes in New Orleans). But even with Bourbon Street eliminated from the list of places I ever need to visit again, there is still so much to experience in New Orleans. And that's exactly what NOLA is: an experience. I may just have to go back there. And when I do? I'll see it with Love.

Portland: Where Young People Go to Retire

Portland ranks. Microbreweries, public transit, being green, coffee—this city tops a lot of lists. Including my own before moving to Denver, when I thought I’d move to Oregon sight unseen because…well, did you read the list mentioned above?

Our first foray into Portland was narrated by a blustery cab driver who pointed out all the ilks of the city: hipsters, homeless, Occupyers, and bored housewives. He mentioned the last sect because there had been an influx of women coming through Portland due to a namedrop in Fifty Shades of Grey. We assured him that wasn’t why we were there, but it was hard to prove it when we were heading to the real hotbed for these touring ladies obsessed with a fictional character: our hotel, The Heathman. 

With a storied past full of haunting tales, famous authors, and apparently a steamy fictional rendezvous in the latest title to hit female bookshelves (ok, last reference to that terrible piece of writing), TheHeathman Hotel was built in the 1920’s and has been a legend ever since. How did we score a spot in this famed downtown haunt? A last minute deal running on Hotels.com for $100 a night. 

We set off to explore the new city and wander in the direction of the Pearl District. When we bumped into a bustling bar with people literally spilling out of it, we decided to stop in. Dinner at Deschutes along with a double IPA hit the spot (they call it an “Experimental IPA” and that’s exactly what I was in the mood for: experimenting). While the food wasn’t almighty, the beer certainly made an impression. 

The next day—our only full day in the City of Roses—was packed with terrible (delicious) food and too much (just enough) beer, in addition to some major attractions throughout the city. A friend recommended Stumptown Coffee and it didn’t disappoint. It seems in Portland if there’s a line for something, it usually lives up to the great expectations you assign to it. Although given more time to explore, surely for every business with a line out the door there’s an equally awesome one around the corner that just hasn’t been discovered yet. 

Coffee in hand, we found ourselves in another line, this time for a thing of myth and lore. A treat so tasty and a morsel so mouth-watering, the line extended beyond anything reasonable. But there we stood: determined to savor a sample of the legendary Voodoo Donughts. The delectable and death-defying donut-making machine is the cream of the crop in all sweet circles of confectionery caliber. Voodoo is at the vanguard of making innovative and edible creations: maple and bacon, Captain Crunch, and at one time before being declared illegal, Pepto Bismol—all in donut format. 

After enjoying every bite of our breakfast consisting of solely sugar-based products, we attempted to walk off at least a few of the calories we just ingested with glee. Back in the Pearl District, we entered Powell’s Books: a bookstore so large, you need a map to navigate it. This is not a sarcastic exaggeration—there is literally a color-coded map at the entrance. Feeling like a sugar-fueled Magellan exploring the open sea of new and used titles, I was living a book publisher’s dream up and down the aisles of the largest independent bookstore in the world. If the beer and donuts don’t persuade you to peruse Portland, this certainly should! 

 

A few hours later, and just around the corner from this magical maze of new and used books, Jo and I discovered food cart central at the corner of Fifth and Stark. The square was lined with carts of all varieties with matching varieties of people lined up to get a taste. Indian, German, Thai, Middle Eastern, Mexican—it was a food lover’s paradise. Using the handy UrbanSpoon app, we found one of the highest rated hot dog stands and indulged in a Bro-Dog, custom made to order by a jovial “bro” manning the cart.

To wash it all down, we found Rogue Ales and swallowed a sample tray of beverages ranging from porter to lager. The best part about Rogue is the art that comes on the bottles: fun, detailed, and at times creepy, the bottle art makes this stop a must on the Portland brew tour. There are other art tour alternatives that don’t involve a brewpub, particularly in the Pearl District where the art galleries are more frequent than the pubs. 

Despite Portland’s primo public transportation system, we mostly walked the streets to get a feel for the atmosphere. We found it clean and comfortable, with a definite young person vibe. Hipsters were in full force and the comedy show Portlandia nails it when they say the 90s are alive in Portland. They also dub it the place where young people go to retire. We couldn’t help but wonder why there were so many young people wandering the streets in the middle of a Tuesday. Sure, we were part of that group of do-nothing twentysomethings acting like we were on vacation—but we were on vacation! And unless Portland had become a hub of jetsetters, it was a bizarre anomaly that didn’t go unnoticed. Especially when you’re being asked for change by people your age listening to iPods.

The entrance to Chinatown looked like every other entrance to Chinatowns across the nation, and isn’t really worth wandering through once you’ve had mai-tai’s in San Francisco’s Chinatown not 48 hours before. The greenspace in Portland was plentiful and a walk along the water’s edge proved this city wasn’t just full of hipsters, but also families and young professionals.

Later that night we spent too much money at a swanky bar named Central, where the bartenders crafted original cocktails based on your liquor preference. My concoction consisted of gin and melon, while Jo consumed a variation of the same. They slap on a $15 price tag per cocktail thanks to what they consider an ingenious display of bartending aptitude, when really they’re just mixing drinks like any other bartender might, but calling it “Dealer’s Choice.” That’s what we get for taking advice from our hotel concierge. 

The next day Jo had to catch an early flight so I spent the morning solo wandering around the city on foot and via the herald public transit system. It was easy to navigate—possibly easier than Denver’s lightrail system, which is already a breeze. To kill some time before my flight, I stopped in at a chic Lebanese restaurant in the heart of downtown for some people watching and hummus—an excellent combination. Habibi Restaurant presented a full plate that would keep me going the rest of the day.

My time in Portland was coming to a close and a $2.40 ticket on the lightrail took me directly to the airport. A next to nothing security line had me at my gate in less than twenty minutes, and the flight itself was one of the cheapest domestics to/from Denver. 

There’s no doubt I’ll be back to Portland, and perhaps one day to live there. Although in all honesty the population of people will be what prevents me from making this a permanent residence. While all pleasant, the crowd seemed a bit perfunctory with an air of superiority. Superfunctory? Perfuperior? Either way, it can best be summed up in the Portlandia video. It's worth a trip just to revisit the 90s. So Portland still ranks…in microbreweries, donuts, and as one of my top US cities to visit.

Manifest Destiny: Ride Up the 505

It all started with a silly idea. It always does, doesn’t it? Jo was training in San Francisco and considering it’s only a two hour jaunt to the left coast from the Rocky Mountain region, we took it as an opportunity to meet up. But instead of staying in SF, a place I already fell a little in love with earlier this year, we decided to drive to Portland.

Did it make sense? Not so much. Was it a short drive? Nope. But was it one of the best road trips ever? You bet. 

Before the day-long drive north, we stayed in San Francisco on Saturday night, which we spent seeing all the top tourist spots. Jo picked me up from the airport, we grabbed burgers at a California institution (In-N-Out Burger), and then took a cab downtown. From our hotel we walked to Union Square and hopped the cable car to Fisherman’s Wharf where we picked up a clam chowder bread bowl and some local beer. Feeling full, we climbed the hills of San Francisco to Chinatown where we earned ourselves a Chinese Mai Tai at Li Po (thanks for the tip, Anthony Bourdain!). 

Riding/hanging on the cable car.

We made the trek back to The Opal, an adequate hotel under $100 a night—a financial feat unheard of in the Bay area. It wasn’t flashy, but it was comfortable and its central location made it convenient and only slightly sketchy. Just don’t be wooed by the free continental breakfast in the morning that consisted of canned fruit and yogurt. 

For $2 a trip (exact change only), the bus system in San Francisco is my new favorite thing. In the morning, the bus took us within a block of the rental car agency which was conveniently located next to a Starbucks—the road trip was off to a great start! Then Jo forgot her license back at the hotel. A small hiccup in an otherwise seamless journey. 

After a quick drive-by Lombard Street, allegedly the most crooked street in the United States, we headed toward the Oakland Bay Bridge. While the hills in San Fran are tiring when on foot, they’re straight up hair-raising when in a moving vehicle that you’re in charge of. I was glad to escape the city unscathed (both myself and the car that didn’t have rental insurance). 

The drive took us along the water’s edge and past Berkeley, eventually winding its way through a very green part of California. No road trip is possible without a smartphone, without which we never could have found Good Day Café smack dab in the middle of Vallejo. Voted "Best Breakfast" in 2012, we had ourselves a winner and a great way to start the 9-hour journey to Bend.

Once we hit our stride on the 505, the landscape quickly changed from greenery with ocean views to flat fields of yellow with the stark contrast of blue mountains behind. Our Nissan Versa didn’t really know how to kick it into high gear, but it held steady at 75 without issue (until you accidentally hit the turbo button and the car stays revved up at the red line until you pull over and restart the car).

With Mt. Shasta clearly on the horizon, we were moving closer to the Oregon border and trees started to look a little taller and bodies of glistening water started to appear. Once we crossed over into Oregon (a first for both of us) and approached Klamath Lake, the views proved inspiring as the roads narrowed and landscape grew even more dramatic. 

When we weren’t using our time to take in the scenery, Jo and I spent the drive chatting. Before the trip, people thought we were a little crazy to drive about 14 hours on a lark, but the fact of the matter is we’d be doing exactly what we were doing anywhere else: talking. At a bar, over coffee, at home…we’d be doing the same thing and not getting hundreds of miles under our belt. We also used the time to bust out some true karaoke moments, which you can enjoy here. You’re welcome.

We rolled into Bend, Oregon at around 6:30 that night and we were pumped to meet up with friends from high school. Our buddies Michael and Gentry live in Bend, a quaint town set against an amazing Oregonian backdrop. We went to 10 Barrel Brewing Company, one of nearly a dozen microbreweries that grace Bend, and enjoyed a few hours worth of laughter over IPA, red, amber, brown…you name it, 10 Barrel in Bend had it.

The next day we moseyed over to the McKay Cottage with Michael for a beautiful brunch out in the garden. It was almost dreamlike, perhaps because the mimosas, but mostly because of the setting and getting to spend time with one of our favorite people in the world; Michael adds a dose of eccentricity wherever she goes whether it be upstate New York, downstate New Mexico, or the forests of Oregon, so we were happy she happened to be in Bend so we could drop in and disrupt her life a bit. 

Not long after brunch, the road was calling us back again. While stopping for gas, I was approached by a young kid asking if I needed help. I waved him off with a thanks, but no thanks, until he told me you can’t pump your own gas in Oregon. Slightly embarrassed, but mostly bemused, I let the guy fill the tank. 

 A lovely obstacle we encountered en route: single-lane highways with 10 mph road painters.

By 4:30 we started our descent into Portland and that’s where the excitement began. We were on the clock: the rental car needed to be gassed up and returned by 5:00 or we’d incur several fees. Taking a rental car from one state to another is already a ridiculous amount of money, so I went into panic mode. (When renting a car directly on the agency's website, be sure to Google "discounts" to find a promotion code; I got 10% off at Budget doing just this)

Traffic decided to make this adventure a challenge, as Jo barreled down the highway and we made our way right into rush hour. We pulled into a gas station, let the guy do his thing, and asked where the Budget rental car company was located, but no one knew. My iPhone indicated that we were right next to it, but we only saw construction and hotels. We eventually pulled into a hotel parking lot and found a 2-inch sign that boasted the name “Budget”. Thanks a lot. With three minutes to spare, we made it under the wire. Remember to get detailed directions to the drop-off location if you expect to be returning your car around the 5:00 p.m. mark.

The past 48 hours had flown by in a flash and the 14-hour drive went by in a snap. From ocean views to fields of sunflowers, redwood forests to mist-laden roads, the journey was ideal for a Fourth of July weekend, as we saw parts of America we had yet to discover. We felt lucky to take in new views and it felt truly American to explore the West. So cheers to manifest destiny! And cheers to road tripping with a favorite ally.

San Francisco: The Hills Have Heights

It was a whirlwind of wonder arriving in San Francisco for a last-minute weekend getaway with Whitney and her sister Alex for a wedding. Even landing at SFO was a rush of unexpected exhilaration as the plane landed so close to the water I swear there was some splash on the window.

We opted for a shuttle, which ended up being the same price as a taxi—about $18 each to get to Japantown. Driving into the hilly city was a trip in and of itself, as we gawked out the windows soaking in our new surroundings. San Francisco has been on my “must see” list ever since I saw the opening credits to Full House in the 90s. The childhood dream of finding the Full House house would eventually come true, but we’ll talk about that later.

The towering Hotel Kabuki can be spotted a mile away—a useful landmark in the city built on hills. The serene lobby and Japanese décor set the scene for a festive stay at this boutique hotel. Thanks to a wedding rate we paid about $140 a night, but typical rates vary between $170 and $200. The rooms were spacious, the view spectacular, and the bizarro glass door situation in the bathroom only proved semi awkward. Not sure why “luxury” hotels insist on being different to the point of dysfunctional, but there you have it.

After setting down our bags, we set off for the streets of San Fran. The unfamiliar territory proved challenging—even with handy iPhones in all three of our hands, we still got lost. But we chalked it up as sightseeing thanks to the stunning architecture at every turn in Russian Hill. We finally stumbled upon the outskirts of Chinatown and decided to duck into the nearest Chinese restaurant that Urbanspoon gave a single dollar sign and an 85% rating. Ho’s Restaurant piqued our desperate palates and when the food was delivered, it was all immediately devoured. Succulent sesame chicken and entangled chow mein ended up being exactly what we were looking for. 
 

A few hills later we were finally in Chinatown, evidenced by the large green arch hovering over the main street. As the time was nearing dusk, lanterns on each corner were lighting up and the crowd was starting to swell. It's the largest Chinatown outside of Asia and we were just happy to be wandering the crowded streets with bubble tea in hand.

Later that night we met up with the bride-to-be for a bachelorette party held at Circa off Chestnut Street. While the bar had an air of pretension, the area itself seemed like the place to be: bars and restaurants with twentysomethings clambering to get into each. A few cucumber martinis later and we became those twentysomethings, stepping into hopping bars with ear deafening music. Very few people will get me to dance in public with less than a handful of drinks in my system, but the Steinmetz sisters happen to be in that select crew. 

Saturday morning we set out for Powell Street to join the massive line for the legendary cable car. But don’t worry about the wait—you’ll be entertained by the cuckoo-crazies out there sporting microphones and some block rockin’ beats. Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact. Around the corner you can buy a MUNI pass that will earn you access to cable cars, trolleys, and buses. This was the best system we could find for public transportation, but to be fair we never tried the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit).

Once the arriving cable car was spun around and the gates let up for us to load on, we made a run for it. Our eyes were on the prize of the clichéd exterior side seats and they were obtained quickly and without throwing punches. Not wanting to hang off the side of a moving vehicle and run the risk of sideswiping the mirrors of parked cars, I sat on the bench as Whitney and Alex grabbed the poles. Riding the hills of ‘frisco on the cable car might be considered touristy (so is saying ‘frisco), but the journey is entirely worth the price and the wait. Inching up those hills and flying down them without abandon was akin to a rollercoaster ride—a totally controlled, slow, and safe rollercoaster, but a ride no less. 

The trolley dropped us off near the pier and we were starting to see why people fall in love with San Francisco. It might not be the cool thing to do, but we were hitting the tourist spots pretty hard. As first timers, it’s necessary to get the lay of the land (and so it happens, the sea), so that started with the Fisherman’s Wharf. We’ll leave the hipster/off the beaten path activities for next time.  

Taking advantage of technology again, we used our iPhone GPS to locate an outdoor food stand named The Codmother. The play on words was enough to win us over, but the charming British woman behind the counter secured the notion that we made the right culinary choice. Piping hot beer-battered fish and chips were soon in front of us and the delicious feast was one of the best stateside fish and chip situations I’ve ever found myself in. Crisp, moist, and all kinds of flavorful…this dish was the real deal. If eating seaside fish from a trailer is wrong, I don’t want to be right. 

My only mission while in the land known for missions was to track down the legit Full House house. This is not to be confused with the view of the Painted Ladies, another iconic scene from the 90s sitcom and a major city landmark, but that’s where we started. We grabbed a bus to Alamo Square Park, where loads of people were lounging making good use of their Saturday afternoons. Photos were getting snapped up left and right of the magnificent view of downtown set in the background of gorgeous San Francisco style homes. We joined the crowd of amateur photographers and took a series of shots, all the while playing the Full House theme song. Yup, we’re those people. 

Any kid my age knows the lore and inexplicable attraction to this stupid 90s show, so I’d be remiss to not describe the glory of finding the Full House house. Skip this section if you have no idea what I’m talking about (i.e., you’re not a sentimental TV fanatic living out elementary school dreams). About a mile away from Alamo Square Park we found ourselves in a quaint neighborhood with picture perfect houses. At 1709 Broderick Street, we stood dead in our tracks: there it was...the only other house I grew up with, but never actually step foot in. While the door is no longer eye-catching red but instead painted black (there’s a Rolling Stones reference somewhere in there), it was clear this was the house. What really gave it away: the rope at the top of the stairs preventing people like us from walking right up to it, and the group of girls our age approaching the house from the other side of the street in a fit of giggles. Pictures were taken. Dreams achieved. Mission complete.

If you’re interested in an Alcatraz tour, check the schedule before you arrive in San Francisco and buy tickets online. We managed to snag seats on the first ferry ride over on Sunday, but evening tours sell out weeks in advance. Departing from Pier 33, the ferry takes 25 minutes to cross over. While it’s a storied site, Alcatraz doesn’t hold much appeal to me. It’s a creeptastic jail on an island made popular by Hollywood (although it did seem fitting to visit a few weeks before the not-hit show Alcatraz premiered).

The audio tour is 100% necessary, without which you’re literally just staring at empty cells. The backstories of the former cell residents are what make it all relatively interesting. We were lucky to be there on the same day a former prisoner was speaking—yes, apparently they still exist. Gaining insight to his experience made the trip worth it, but I wouldn’t recommend Alcatraz to most unless you have a torrid love affair with the criminal justice system.

Once we docked back at Pier 33, we made our way toward Boudin Bakery.  When you go to San Francisco, you get chowder in a sourdough bread bowl. Period. Boudin has been busting out these bread bowls for more than a century and the chowder they ladle into those suckers is so piping hot and delicious I still dream about it (this coming from the gal who detests seafood, but even I can’t deny that this was on point). It’s a tourist trap worth getting stuck in.

Our leisurely late lunch was interrupted by the realization we only had an hour before we had to catch a shuttle to the wedding—the original purpose of the whole trip. A trolley, taxi, and shuttle all played their parts in landing us at the wedding with mere moments to spare, but the sprint to the hotel and the wicked fast wardrobe change made for a heart-pounding 60 minutes. We spent our last night in SF dancing the night away, complete with the Hora, an ideal end to a weekend full of West Coast fun. 

Whit and I showing how to get dolled up and dash.

If you’re ever given the opportunity to spend a few days in San Francisco, take it...run with it...never look back. Anthony Bourdain’s new show The Layover featured SF a few days after my return, so I already have a new to do list for when I go back. And with this fantastic city, it’s certainly not if…but when.