Adventures with Mimes

Since it's topical, some people may read the subject line and misread it as "Miners". They just finished rescuing those subterranean dudes in Chile, and I'm very happy for the workers and their families. But that story has been adequately covered by other media, so the only comment I'll make is to observe that our news reporters are becoming more sophisticated: They all pronounced the country's name as "Chee-lay" rather than "Chilly", which surprised me. (I still bet that very few of them could find the country on a map, or identify whether it's closer to Yure-a-gway or Venz-oo-ayla.) Anyway, kudos to the rescue crews for a job well done, and to the news media for once again successfully turning human suffering into huge ratings.

(One more comment: I heard one speaker say that the rescue effort was comparable to the Apollo program. Um, OK. I think that's a bit like comparing Lou Bega to Led Zeppelin, but...whatever.)

Anyway, today's topic really is Mimes -- you know, those creepy guys with the face paint who always seem to get trapped in glass boxes and strong winds and stuff.

Don't worry, I didn't go to France without telling you. I'm still talking about my recent trip to San Francisco. It truly is an international city, though, and I heard dozens of different languages while I was there. (OK, I'm just guessing. Since I can't distinguish between, say, Armenian and Latvian, I could've heard the same languages over and over again. Even certain dialects of Spanish are all Greek to me.) And the mimes I want to discuss had a uniquely American flavor to them anyway. But we'll get to that. First, let me set the stage for the tale that follows:

I was traveling for a special project in Sunnyvale, CA, but didn't have to work over the weekend. Therefore...it's tourist time! Using the hotel's "Local Attractions" rack, I plotted out my adventures for both Saturday and Sunday. Saturday was when I ran the Bay Trail, which I've already discussed. After my run, I also toured the Intel Museum to see a bunch of circuit chips, and then drove out to Half Moon Bay. Traffic was horrid and the weather was crummy, so my visit at the bay was very short and involved no beach activities worth talking about. I did see the ocean, but overall it was a pretty dull Saturday.

Ah, but Sunday -- Sunday was rich in bloggable activity. After all, what could be more exciting than a trip to Alcatraz? The legendary home of such notables as Al Capone, "Machine Gun" Kelly, Clint Eastwood, and that 'Birdman' dude, Alcatraz promised a day full of history, chilling tales of crime and punishment, and likely encounters with a ghost or two. (If you've ever watched "Ghosthunters", then you know that every prison in the world is haunted by spirits of multiple murder victims, a couple of corrupt wardens, and at least one fair young maiden who mysteriously fell out a window while pining away for a loyal lover lost at sea.) I was really looking forward to it!


Of course, there was nothing in the brochure about the "34th Annual Glide Floss Bridge-to-Bridge 12K Run" being that morning, and drawing thousands of runners (and their vehicles) down to the piers.


Amazingly, I did manage to find a parking spot, and after a only few wrong turns and some significant walking, I was finally able to navigate the crowds and the irrational pier numbering system to find my way to the Alcatraz tour station. (Seriously, one section of piers go in the following order: 7, 3, 1, 24, 28...?? Apparently the San Francisco city planners somehow managed to skip 2nd grade arithmetic.) The tour site had many interesting signs explaining the history of the island, the harshness of imprisonment on "the Rock", and the statistics of escape attempts vs. bloated corpses floating in the harbor, and more. But the sign that really got my attention read "Next Available Tour: MONDAY!"

Bummer. Can't go to 'Traz, eh? So it's time for Plan B, then. Except that I didn't have a Plan B, and had no idea how to get anywhere other than back to my car. But being a good tourist with decent shoes, I decided to walk around and see what there was to see.

Pier 39 had restaurants and shops (and more importantly, restrooms). But the shops seemed to be aimed at folks who enjoyed fine dining and exotic jewelry, rather than those of us whose tastes run more toward twizzlers and 3 Stooges marathons. I didn't spend much time there.

But as I was leaving, I heard a voice aimed in my direction: "Say, Meester, you wanna ride biyseekle over Golden Get breeje?" I have to admit I was intrigued; a expatriot European selling chances to get up close and personal with legendary American iconography? OK, lady, let's hear your spiel.

For thurty-seex American Dollars, I could rent a mountain bike and ride it across the famous bridge, or anywhere else I wanted to go. They'd provide a map, a ferryboat ticket for a return trip, and a Kryptonite lock...and promised not to actually charge my credit card until I returned with the bike later in the day. The map was about as useful as one of the mazes on a Bob's Big Boy placemat, and I didn't have a water bottle, sunscreen, or any sort of flat tire contingency plan. But it was a lovely overcast day and I figured there'd be plenty of places to stop for a drink if I wanted...so I handed over my MasterCard, put a rubber band around my ankle to keep my jeans from getting caught in the chain, adjusted the seat height, and headed for the bridge.

I was not the only tourist with this idea. The bike lane across the bridge was one massive peloton, with most of the riders being overweight and dangerously inexperienced retirees who jabbered away in various eastern European dialects and gestured toward the various landmarks and sea vessels visible below. I would have no problem with such über-touristing, except for the fact that pack bicycling can be dangerous even for Lance Armstrong and company...and they are generally not one thin railing away from an 800-foot plunge into the Pacific Ocean. Not only that, but it was a two-way bike lane and there were commuter cyclists coming from the other direction in a much bigger hurry than camera-happy Franz, Liesl and Company going our way. I fully expected to see someone catapulted off the bridge, with their rented bicycle spinning down in a graceful arc beside them.

But despite the narrowness of the lane, the nearness to oblivion, and the potential road-rage of the frustrated commuter cyclists, I didn't see any accidents. It was just slow going. But we made it across, and I cruised on into downtown Sausalito. It was a bike-friendly place, but since I'm not much of a shopper nor connoisseur of seafood-based confectionery, I didn't spend a lot of time there.

Instead, I spent most of the rest of the afternoon being lost. And by "lost", I mean that I had a map and knew where I was going, but since the map didn't show any of the streets that actually had street signs posted, I had no idea where I was relative to my destination. The locals were nice, though, and didn't seem to be too surprised when yet another dimwit out-of-towner with a rubber band around his pantleg stopped them to ask for navigational assistance. After a few such impromptu conversations and a brief stop for some ice cream, I found my way to "Old Mill Park", home of "some of the world's tallest trees".

They weren't kidding. These trees were VERY tall, and gorgeous. The park itself was especially lovely now that the clouds had burned off and the afternoon sun could poke its way through the tree branches to sprinkle glitter across the picnic tables and pathways. But as usual when I'm vacationing solo, I stood there about two minutes and thought, "Well, this is great, but I really have no reason to hang around."

I did get involved in a brief conversation with a 10-year-old kid who had somehow missed the standard lecture against the dangers of talking to strangers. "Hey, Mister," he said, "do you know how to fix brake cables?" Well, surely I do, son. Let me take a look. "Oh wait," he said, "I figured it out." He snapped the cable back into its clip and then yelled "Mom! I need a new bike!" From somewhere in the woods, I heard his mom reply with the standard line parents have been using for centuries: "Then get a job!"

Not wishing to get involved in someone else's domestic disputes, I hopped back on the bike and tooled off the way I came. Sausalito was having an antique car show, complete with a crappy CCR cover band, so I hung around there for a bit, taking time to decide whether I should ride my bike back across the bridge, or spend the $10 for a ferry boat ticket. I knew I would enjoy the bike ride and would benefit from the exercise, but then again...when was I ever going to take a ferry boat across the Bay? Should be fun.

They stacked the bikes next to each other in the lower deck of the ferryboat and sent the tourists up into the open air of the upper two levels. I had some concern that there'd be problems identifying which bike belongs to whom at the end of the ride; indeed, the only way I'd recognize my rental was by the half-finished Diet Coke in the handlebar bag. Otherwise, all the rentals were identical. Then again, the rental company didn't note the serial number of the bike I left with, so I suppose as long as I came back with something that had two wheels, they wouldn't care.

We saw the Golden Gate Bridge, of course.

Alcatraz.

And of course, the San Francisco skyline.

It was a great ride! And because we passed a parked submarine and a much larger "liberty ship" in the harbor, I now knew of a couple of other tourist attractions I could visit if I decided to come back another time.

I turned in the bike, took some video of the sea lions, and spend a few moments pondering why they were barking so much and shoving each other around. There were clearly "King of the Hill" battles going on among the critters, but it appeared to me that there was plenty of room for them all to spread out and have space to stretch and catch rays without elbowing each other. (Wait, do sea lions have elbows? I have no idea.) Perhaps they're just like human kids, daring their siblings to cross the line onto "my" side of the car seat or whatever. In any case, their belly-aching sure seemed to entertain the tourists.

And there we go -- we've come neatly back to the focus of today's entry: tourist entertainment (AKA, mimes). Sure, there are bridges and boats and animals and probably even a wax museum or two down along the harbor. But wherever there are excess dollars engorging tourist pockets, you're also going to have street performers. There are folks like the saxophone player who had decent chops and swung the groove on "Take 5" with aplomb and was taking in a pretty good chunk of well-deserved cash, and there are the skateboarders who simply annoy everyone. But music and athletics are easy to understand compared to the baffling concept of the "living statue".

These guys cover themselves with metallic paint, and then stand on the sidewalk as if they're made of bronze, attempting not to move until it appears that either someone is going to put some money in their tin can, or an innocent and unsuspecting child is going to wander close enough to have the bejeezus scared out of him when the creepy thing suddenly comes to life. As with Irish folk dancing, armpit farting, or yodeling like Yoko Ono, you are forced to admit that it requires some practice to achieve expertise in the field. But that does not answer the question as to WHY? What could possibly possess a person to think that slathering himself with Sherwin Williams and standing still could ever be considered a "profession"? It's creepy, perverted, and just plain wrong...like facism and rap music.

Nevertheless, they're out there. And while I suppose that a motionless madman in metalpaint is preferable to a white-faced, stripey-shirted, suspender-wearin' goomer who's moonwalking in a nonexistent wind, they're still pretty annoying. So please consider this a warning; if you go to San Francisco and want to hang out by the piers, you'd better prepare yourself to see these unholy modernist mimes gathering near the sea lions. Take precautions, and think about how you'll explain this to your children if they happen to see one. "If you don't finish college and therefore can't get a job, this is what happens to you," etc.

In the meantime, please enjoy the changing of the seasons, and have a great day!