Nothing Is As It Seems

In an effort to escape Austin and its oppressive March heat and humidity, San Julius and I decided to go on a little outing to the Bay Area.  To San Jose, specifically, so that we might also do some recon for the upcoming El FC match.

We decided to book our flight.  On my first search for fares, SFO came up cheapest.  I was skeptical and did some of my own research into that airport.  To my horror, it’s not even in San Francisco itself.

Despite this obvious false advertising (only worse one I’ve found is Cincinnati’s airport isn’t even in Ohio!  It’s in Kentucky.), I decided to let my wallet do the talking.  But, going back to the page, the best fare was now across the Bay in Oakland.  Determined to not be fooled twice, I booked two tickets on the (it’s close enough) nerd bird tout suite. 

We landed on Tuesday.  The airport itself was open and clean.  We picked up our car from our Avis agent and quickly merged onto the 880 South.  In this megalopolis, we passed a sign stating we had entered the town of San Leandro.  It was then that San Julius looked out her window and snapped this picture:

Aghast, I had to pull over to gather myself.  How could this be?  Ghirardelli.  The epitome of old and classic San Francisco. Turns out they make their chocolates here and not in the City by the Bay.

As I got back on the 880, I noticed Avis hadn’t filled up the car and my tank was low on gas.  So, after we put a few more miles behind us, we exited just south of Fremont.  As I was filling up on the reasonably priced gas, a man at the pump nearest to us was incessantly talking to me.  Finding out we were from out of town, he told me to look out my driver’s side window in about two miles and I’ll see the Tesla factory.  He informed me that these were the best made, safest cars made on the planet.

We made it to San Jose and headed straightaway for their stadium and commence our reconnoitering.  Again, fakeness discovered.  The Earthquakes aren’t even their original name. They were originally the Clash.

Disappointed with all that is fake, San Julius and I sat, bereft of trust in the world.  It was at this moment I thought of Horatio Alger and took his advice to go west.  We made it to Los Gatos and, to our great delight, found our own personal Valhalla, Campo di Bocce.  Tom Albanese greeted us and made us feel at home.  Looking at the menu, one item captured my attention.  San Julius loves calamari like a pig loves slop.  Once ordered, it came out quickly and looked perfect.  Before I could begin enjoying this delectable comestible, I noticed San Julius gobbled 3 pieces immediately, took 3 steps to the right, then 1 to the left.  She then stared the stare of chicken at me.  Being the savant I am, I knew:

Austin—3

San Jose—1