Huntington, the Latkes, and the Missing Cat

[The Cat Hedwick is not adapting well to my presence at F.o.M.'s place over on Russian Hill. I left work Friday evening to rush home, eat dinner, pack a bag (with dirty laundry, mostly; one learns to take advantage of free washer-dryer when usually dependent on coin-op), and take the long, long bus ride from the Panhandle to Union near Jones. (F.o.M.'s backyard backs onto Macondray Lane, upon which Armistead Maupin mostly based his fictional Barbary Lane.) There's no way to do it without transferring at least once, and even the method I discovered (43 Masonic up thru the Presidio to the Marina, then transfer to either the 41 or 45 eastbound) requires a four-block walk thru the some of the most astoundingly well-heeled, heterosexual parts of the city.]

[Yes, it's true; not only do couples of the male-female persuasion exist in San Francisco, they openly flaunt their clearly sexual bonds with one another by holding hands and even sharing the occasional peck right there at the corner of Fillmore and Greenwich. I know! I was as shocked as you are. Apparently this kind of behavior goes on all the time in cities all over this great land of ours. If we don't do something drastic pretty quickly, we might see this perversity spread worldwide. I'm writing my elected officials today, and so should you.]

[Anyway, this minimum 45-minute voyage took me to near the summit of Russian Hill, a neighborhood I inhabited for something less than a year about ten years ago. I felt a twinge of nostalgia as the 41 (or 45) inched past Union and Hyde, where the original Swensen's still doles out Swiss Orange Chip ice cream to the masses. John's and my favorite seafood joint is right there, too; I'm sure he and I had at least one fight along the cable car line after too much chardonnay and lobster bisque. Good times!]

[However, it's not 1997, it's 2007, and as I dragged my tattered-but-true luggage to F.o.M.'s, it became clear that the power was out in that block and those immediately surrounding it. I could see that the darkness extended down to North Beach, but didn't seem to be affecting the street lights or electric bus lines. Hmmm. I navigated my way carefully up the stairs (F.o.M.'s flat being on the third floor of a typical 3-unit Victorian), and called out to the Cat Hedwick. "Kitty, kitty, kitty!"]

[Nothing. As with most women her age, F.o.M. has acquired a lot of objets d'art et pas-exactement-d'art, and I tripped over a few of them trying to find my way around in the dark. (Nothing broke, blessedly.) Cat in hiding, objet-cluttered apartment gloomy. I dumped my stuff, headed down the hill, and grabbed a couple at the Cinch on Polk Street. A couple of drinks, not a couple of guys; I've never had much luck at the Cinch, and I wasn't really on the prowl anyway, having planned simply to read my book at F.o.M.'s that night.]

[Got back, power restored, still no sign of cat. Next morning, food in bowl definitely less than night before, and as I was getting ready to return to Maison le Trou to help prepare for the Hanukkah party, spotted a quick bit of terrified gray fluff jetting down the hall from one hiding place to another. Weird in a way, since the little beastie was all over me when I had dinner with F.o.M. last week. Choosing not to be offended, I left the scared feline in peace, and walked Macondray Lane like the pilgrim I guess I am before heading home.]

[The party went well. Since we don't have a common room at le Trou other than the kitchen, Chris and I knew our rooms had to serve as ersatz parlors. This meant I had to rearrange everything to gain about two square feet more of Lebensraum. Well, it needed to be done anyway, and my room does look a lot better this way. It was exhausting shoving all that stuff around, and I was a bit tired and cranky until I had an invigorating shower and an even more invigorating glass of Gallo of Sonoma Pinot Noir, marked down 50% at Lucky if you're shopping.]

[My guests: two. Elisabeth's: three (including the delightfully evil Sylvie, who used to inhabit my room). Chris's: like fifty. Clearly, the Angry Young Man has somehow maintained Mr. Popularity status even while spending most nights planning world domination alone in his room. I finally got to meet the talented but surprisingly soft-spoken Camper English, whose blogs I've been reading off and on since 1999. Since he writes about liquor for a living, and because he always used to write about all the barhopping he did during the dot-com era, I was expecting this party animal or something. So not; while quite personable, he wouldn't be out of place at a library convention. (No that I've ever been to one; for all I know, they're the most raucous fests going.) He did have the party cojones to sample and profess to enjoy the contents of the dusty bottle of Chartreuse that's been sitting undisturbed on top of the fridge since long before I first started coming over here more than two years ago.]

[Chris made excellent latkes, Elisabeth, Sylvie, and I decorated butter cookies (my Israeli flag icing design on one Star of David cookie did get noticed), and there was much drinking and chatting. I started to get tired again at around midnight (OK, the wine and vodka and heavy food might have contributed), and knowing I had a long bus trip ahead of me, cut out before most of the guests had left.]

[I got back here by noon today, did the party dishes, and ate a few more latkes with my grilled cheese sandwich. Heartburn minimal, which you know latkes, so Chris must've done something right. Talked to Jessica briefly as she and Bob drove the Dog Auggie to the snow at Big Bear, a corner of California I've never seen. Me, I'm joining Sean later at the Castro Theatre to see The Apartment, one of those movie classics I've never gotten around to viewing. It'll be good to see it on the big screen.]

[That's it. Time to go enjoy some of this lovely winter sunshine for the bare hour or so remaining before the sun sets.]

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