The Rock

In our most horrible Scottish accents we continued to quote the Jerry Bruckheimer classic cheese fest, The Rock while waiting to board the last night ferry to Alcatraz. I kept picturing Nick Cage wearing one of his better toupees and Sean Connery out acting everyone but Ed Harris, which helped keep me from fixating on how creepy and unsettling Alcatraz can be, particularly at night.



I'm lying in bed listening to my husband snore and realizing that I'm so tired my eyes just closed against my will. Nearly 12 straight hours of walking, touring and art consumption will do that to a girl. Not to mention an entirely accidental ascent of the evil Russian Hill that caused a small, rain soaked tiff between our usually happy traveling team, causing me to say "maybe we don't talk until we get up this goddamn hill," and leaving me wanting to choke my dear husband, then wandering resentfully around the Cable Car Museum until I got over myself.



Of course that all lasted about ten minutes, and as soon as I got a drink and dried off, everything was copacetic. And no, I didn't try to lock him in solitary. Alas it's sleepy time now. More tomorrow when we tour the Castro and take in some street theatre. And maybe sleep in a bit. Fingers crossed.