After the long plane ride from Atlanta to San Francisco — about six hours, me sitting in the only seat that did not have a functioning overhead light, with twenty Freshmen essays to grade and several months of backlogged Wireds to catch up on — I was greeted by an alien landscape. There is a city among the mountains, touching the Pacific Ocean. Since it was dark, I could just make out the outlines on a slumbering mountain against the sky and we drove north to SF from the airport. Even though it was nearing midnight my time (a zygotey 8-something here), I was famished, since the flight had food, but you had to pay for it. Man, no wonder Delta is having such difficulties.
Rasselas Jazz Club awaited, replete with Sierra Nevada, Ethiopian vegetarian mush (this is a good thing), and a pretty good Afro-Cuban jazz band. Since it was still officially St. Patrick’s Day, I quaffed my requisite pint of Guinness before switching to the local brew. After a few beers and some of the best vegetable dumplings — “Sambussas” — I have ever put in vegetable dumpling hole, I was enjoying the band and getting sleepy. Stomach full, I sought out my hotel, figuring I had to give my paper the next day, and that I would also have a chance to explore. Should be exciting.
