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San Francisco - Part 2
Written by: Dominick A. Miserandino
Photography by: Margherita Miserandino
Today was an odd day. I said I wasn’t going to lie to you... we were invited to go and see some other Best Western’s in town. They say Best Western is different, and the Tuscan Inn didn’t feel like a stereotypical Best Western.
I should backtrack and describe my presumptions on Best Western, which the conclusion paragraph of this story will probably break, as literary notion suggests.
I pictured Chevy Chase. I pictured those stupid "Vacation" movies that he did, when he was in a station wagon. I pictured roadside motels. I pictured rooms that open up directly into a parking lot, and rooms that are decorated, with colors a cross between a 1970’s love-motel and something that Ronald McDonald would be quite proud of. That’s not to say that I didn’t like them, but to me they served a purpose. You paid, you slept, everybody was happy.
The Tuscan Inn dispelled those feelings by having a fireplace living room, free wine at five o’clock, a great, real restaurant and of course a wild crab running around. It was homey and cute but yet, bigger than a B&B.
Well, we were invited to Seventh Street by Union Square where there stood, not one, not two, but three Best Westerns, enough to make any member of the company quite envious. I’m not going to bore you with details, but we ran through the Americana, then we went across the street to the Flamingo and then back to the Carriage House. The Flamingo was one of the oldest members of Best Western in San Francisco and the Americana was one of the most confusing.
First, we’ll hit the confusing part of the story. The Flamingo is decorated in traditional colors with traditional architecture ,while the Americana is decorated in pink, with wide-open atriums and a pool. No, that wasn’t a typo, and the dyslexic among us might be forced to re-read the paragraph. For some madness unbeknownst to me, they have a pink hotel called the Americana across the street from an American looking hotel called the Flamingo. Fortunately, they don’t offer free wine as this would simply lead to confusion amongst the ranks and guests would be running around everywhere.
Back to the other part of the story... they are all owned by one of the oldest members of Best Western. I learned what I found interesting, but I hope to describe without sounding like a commercial. Best Western is the world’s largest hotel chain in the known universe because it’s a membership organization. The hotel becomes a member, you pay your dues and you have a set of rules to follow. If you’re in, then you’re part of the family. They then inspect you twice a year to make sure you’re following the rules (ironing board in every room) and if you’re not following the rules Carolyn from Marketing beats you with a stick. Only kidding on the last part but I felt it fit with the "part of the family theme".
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The Pink Americana hotel with the traditional Flamingo Hotel in the background | |
I find the idea amazing since most people have those assumptions about the brand that I had, however anything and anybody can be a Best Western as long as they follow certain service levels. You have to be a nice place and can’t be a sleazy, per-hour hotel. You have to have the iron in every room, free coffee and other "Best Western" stuff. But the variations on that are on your own. If you want to have free wine at 5:00, then go for it! If you want to paint your hotel pink and the other hotel in traditional Americana and then watch the guests get confused... well, it’s morally wrong but you’re allowed to in the world of Best Western. Anyway, you get the idea, so back to our adventure.
We grabbed a quick bite to eat and then hopped on a cab to explore Fisherman’s Wharf. We first walked over to Pier 39 where Margherita insisted on seeing the sea lions. She finds these things pretty cute and can stand there watching the creatures honking and barking at each other for hours. I’d much rather her have a hobby like this than pearl collecting or diamond shopping. She just sat there watching the lions and I sat watching her. It would have been more romantic if not for the barking in the background.
But we sat for twenty minutes and I listened to Margherita’s theories about Sea Lions and her embedding each one with personalities. "Oh, that one is mean. That one is angry at that one. Yes, that one is in charge over there." I’m not denying that Sea Lions are probably very intelligent creatures but after a few minutes I was witness to a soap opera that could only be in the mind of Margherita.
We then walked on and passed, "Rent a Bike" where we could ride the bicycle built for two. Tres Chic I say! Yes, bike riding together is romantic, and being in San Francisco, that is what we should do.
The phone rang. Whenever the phone rings at such romantic moments it usually is an interruption...
"Margherita che fai?" I heard over the phone. Translated it mean, "What are you doing"?
After Margherita explained my desire to ride across the Golden Gate I heard a loud spurring noise coming over my cell phone. All I could make out were the evils of riding over the bike and the danger of falling into the water. Essentially this bike ride was a means to an end, and that would be our end. Death was at our door and he wasn’t waiting to knock. Or so was described by my lovely mother-in-law.
This firmed up my resolve. I paid the necessary fees, grabbed a hat and we tied up Margherita’s pant bottoms with rubber bands as to not have her legs get caught.
"Do you think my mom’s right about the danger?" She asked as I put the rubber bands on her.
"Don’t worry you have a helmet and rubber bands to protect you".
Off I was peddling.
We peddled down the wharf and past Ghirardelli Square and things were quite romantic. However, I was getting a bit tired. I only learned later that Margherita wasn’t peddling much. She was enjoying the chauffeuring that I was doing.
The phone rang again. It was her brother. I stopped the bike and was reminded that her mother is a sly one and had Margherita’s brother call to ask what time zone we were in or something insane, simply to see if we had died yet.
We shook clear of her brother and kept peddling. I was determined to make it over that bridge.
Unfortunately, by the time I was peddling halfway up the biggest hill my goals changed. No longer was I determined to make it over the bridge but I was determined that my heart not explode. Not only for my own life, but simply to spite her mother and prove her wrong, in that bicycle riding did not lead to instantaneous death. We stopped by the water, looked at the Golden Gate from a distance and then peddled slowly back home.
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View from Scoma's Restaurant along the wharf | |
We then went back to the Tuscan Inn in time to pass the 5:00 wine tasting. Again, the room was filled. Again there were drunk people happily doing what makes drunk people drunk.... "Tasting wine". I would hazard to guess that not many of them were in the state of mind to "taste the wine" but were in fact just drinking the wine without prejudice or preference. I like that line, you can quote me on it..." drinking wine without prejudice or preference".
We went upstairs, changed for dinner and then decided to head out to one of the most famous restaurants in Fisherman’s Wharf... Scoma’s is the Italian name for deep out on the dock and lots of seafood. That was actually kind of corny so lets just say that it’s an Italian/seafood place that’s been there so long it’s a landmark in the area.
The waitstaff was friendly and I had this mixed plate which included shrimp, scallops , lobster and something else. Why do I say something else... Did you forget that I was not tired, jetlagged and drinking wine for two days straight. Plus I dehydrated myself by peddling my wife up a mountain. All this and you want me to remember the fourth type of fish at Scomas? It was good, I remember that. I remember the place was packed. I even remember that the mussels were really good and Margherita suggested that we could just live off the appetizers for a week. But no Virginia, there is no memory of the fourth portion of that special.
We grabbed a taxi back as Margherita explained that women can’t walk in very high-heeled shoes more than three blocks.
Day 1 - San Francisco
Day 2 - San Francisco
Day 3 - Napa
Day 4 - Napa
Day 5 - San Francisco
Day 5 Part 2 - San Francisco
Day 7 - San Francisco
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