Friday the 17th of April dawned eagerly at 445AM Pacific time with the Rising of the Twins. Let the games begin!

When the rest of the city awoke, we scored a Sienna minivan from Alamo and blindly pointed it uphill, due west from the airport. The closest thing to hills in Florida is that godawful Hills reality show which my wife thinks considerably more of than I do. Here in Northern California we found some major league mountains. The pavement starts off in a normal fashion, but then slopes and turns and weaves towards the heavens, requiring much muscle under the hood and in your pants to conquer. We then crested the range and zigzagged downhill to Pacifica Beach for a sniff and a view of the ocean blue.

That afternoon we dropped our bulging bags and still weary butts in a hotel in the businessy Embarcadero district of downtown.  We were located more in the thick of the action than the previous night–we just didn’t participate. As soon as the kids found slumber–no later than 8PM–we retired to the carpeted hallway just outside our door for an ornate dinner of takeout pizza, salad and wine, exchanging only whispers and peppercorn ranch.