1 Dec.

After a nice eggs over easy (medium) for breakfast, we walked down to Pier 33 to book our tickets for a trip to Alcatraz.

The next departure was just 20 minutes later, so we plumped for that.

Upon arrival, I was amazed by how hilly and big the island was—much like the city a mile across the water. The next thing to strike me was the cool graffiti that remained from the Native American occupation (well, reclamation) of the late ’60s.

Nick with some of the Native Americans’ graffiti.

There’s such history on Alcatraz that I found it hard to take it all in.

The audio-guided cell-block tour was excellent, with narration coming from wardens and ex-cons. That’s right: I picked up some of the lingo. I can’t believe how cramped the rooms were in there and that they had people doing life stretches on that rock.

Cell-block rockin’ beats.

Alcatraz also offered some excellent views of the city, which must have further grated the prison’s inmates.

When we got back, Jon informed us he was flying home tomorrow, which is utterly (butterly?) gutting. Perhaps it would’ve been different if somewhere without so many hills were the destination after Willits; he isn’t getting along with his crutches, and San Francisco’s gradients have seemingly exacerbated the problem.

Never before has a Breton jumper-tracksuit bottom combo attacted such attention.

We took him to Hooters for a grand ol’ U.S.-style goodbye.

Safe trip home, Sistine.


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