My four day Thanksgiving weekend was kind of odd, to be honest. Good, but odd. Turkey Day was wonderful and fry-tastic, and is documented in a previous post. Friday I saw Mike off to band practice at noon and then managed to fall deeply asleep while reading (damn you, Infinite Jest – I will finish you one day!) until he finished several hours later. I really hate wasting vacation days, but I have halfway convinced myself that I really needed those snoozes. After my epic nap I met Mike at Green Apple Books, which gave me massive amounts of inspiration for Christmas presents. Edward Gorey tarot cards, anyone?
Saturday, recovered from my overwhelming sleepiness, I hopped on my bike for a few hours. Mike and I did the Marin Headlands, which I have been avoiding because they are big mother-f’ing hills. But you know what? They weren’t that bad! And the view, of course, was amazing.
And THEN, a few hours later, we went for a hike. Not a super tough hike, granted, and one that included a stop for beer in the middle, but still. We took the Dipsea Trail up from Mill Valley, and it just so happened that we hiked right into the middle of the Quadruple Dipsea, in which crazy Northern Californians run the Dipsea Trail four times, for a nice light day of 28 miles of hill running. Why not? In our case, we only did a fraction of that – we hit the Tourist Club after a few miles, which was lovely and full of German beer. Then we retraced our steps down the approx 8,000,000 stairs that make up the Dipsea Trail and headed back into the city.
We wrapped up Saturday by going to a jazz club with some friends, where we ate delicious Ethiopian food and watched some drunk ladies who looked like they had materialized straight out of an early 90’s sitcom dance awkwardly to what was a very good jazz quartet. One lady was wearing boots, tights, a skirt, a blouse, and a wolfy crystal barette – and they were all red. She whipped her butt-length hair around with a fervor that was completely divorced from the actual mood of the music. The saxophonist from the band would pump his non-instrument hand in the air and grin every time anyone in the room clapped for him or his band, and the keyboardist looked like Rick James, so really, all was right with the world.
On Sunday my cousin and I pretended to shop but we gave up quickly and went to a bar for some midafternoon drinks. These were followed by more drinks at Fly Bar, which is how I came to imbibe more alcohol on Sunday than on the three evenings prior, which makes no sense given the practicalities of sleeping in vs not sleeping in.
Verdict: odd. But good. But odd.