We were able to dart in and out of Pergamino Cafe for breakfast because we were the first to be sat. We needed to be early as we were scheduled to be on the first boat to Alcatraz this morning.

Heading out on the early-bird ferry offered us the best opportunity to be on the prison island when it is least crowded and the quietest. We’ll hopefully make the evening visit someday because I feel that could be the best opportunity to gain a sense of the solitude that prisoners might have felt on the Rock many a year ago.

How strange is the dichotomy of emotions felt regarding decay? Some structures add to their gravity, and their history is magnified as they fall into disrepair, while others grow sad and tragic. My view of this likely has a lot to do with the function of the crumbling structure; the Dachau concentration camp and Alcatraz here were used to inflict pain and suffering on those who passed through their gates. On the other hand, when I see an abandoned and falling-down home, I feel sad tragedy as the lives lived here I’d like to imagine were good ones but came to a point when whatever they owned had to be left behind.

If I were a better writer, I would have noted how my mother-in-law and wife felt about their time at Alcatraz, but as is often the situation, I’m wrapped up with my own senses trying to interpret what a place is.

Sadly, the private residences that once existed on the island have mostly collapsed, so other than peering into their shells and foundations, there will be no witnessing of how these people lived here.

As for how prisoners lived here, the structures are mostly visitable, but the sounds and smells that would have been as present as the bars and concrete are nowhere to be found. The kitchen in the distance looks as though it could get back to work with a minimum of work, while the dining area simply needs some extra tables, and it, too, could be put back into service. Heck, if the National Park Service were to bring in a concessionaire that served up prison food, I’d buy three plates of that gruel to enhance our time here.

I wonder if Al Capone walked these stairs?

Or maybe Frank Lucas Bolt slept here. Who was he? Back in 1934, a couple of months before this federal prison officially opened, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, wanting to prove to America how intolerant he was regarding homosexuals, transferred Mr. Bolt, who’d been convicted of sodomy, to the Rock. Ironic that Mr. Hoover was likely homosexual himself; maybe Frank and J. Edgar were able to have a private little thing here in isolation?

I’ve visited enough libraries to know how a university library differs from a small public library or how an antiquarian bookstore attracts a different clientele compared to a used bookstore specializing in romance novels. I see inmates in a concentration camp as innocent victims suffering in an atmosphere of intimidation, victimization, and impending doom, but here in prison, ruthless sociopaths would have been congregating who, after scheming how to take things from others for the majority of their lives, would have turned this place into a kind of party of depravity. I don’t think I can really ever imagine the harsh environment of the reprobates that occupied these cells and the guards that were required to keep them in order, as my emotional sensibilities lean more towards empathy for others’ pain and struggle than with those who take by force.

After a shameless night of lactose indulgence featuring gourmet ice cream, triple-thick milkshakes, and Captain Crunch with a quart of ice-cold milk, my wife’s doomsday prediction has finally come true – I actually did peel the paint off the walls, blew the lid off the can, and busted the porcelain throne, all in one movement. I am still trying to figure out what happened to the floor tiles. As for my anatomy, you don’t want to know. Oops, this is a picture of a prison cell toilet here at Alcatraz.

The lower cells must have been their own special type of hell that, although you could see the sky, you never saw the horizon, while those on the second tier had bay views. Today, those types of views command millions of dollars.

This view of my mother-in-law behind bars was worth millions! Seriously just kidding, but it was funny, especially that I was able to talk her into making that grimace.

The prison yard where convicts could try imagining the seashore just out of sight but certainly within earshot.

Back in 1894, nearly 40 years before the federal prison here was built and opened, this was a military incarceration facility, and back then, the government felt it appropriate to arrest and imprison 19 Hopi men who were refusing to allow their children to be sent from Oraibi, Arizona, to an Indian Boarding School a thousand miles away to ensure their children were well trained in the ways of the white man through the policy known as “save the man, kill the Indian.” The tour of Alcatraz, by the way, makes no mention of these horrors committed against fellow citizens of the United States.

On an island in a cage within a cage, men with guns pointed at them were supposed to atone for their crimes. This type of isolation produced hardened criminals and has seemingly done little to dissuade those on the margin of civility from adopting the skills of social and economic integration. Yet, we go on treating men and women as beasts in order to create monsters so that a frightened population can better sense the protection a government claims to offer them.

Under the wings of the all-powerful, the controlled masses gaze upon symbols that assure them, like the sun that rises in the morning, that their protectors will forever be defending their ideals.

And if the symbols fail to guide you, we always have guns for extra persuasion.

Jeez, don’t I know how to take an amazing moment of vacation and turn it into some societal lament where I refuse to take prisoners…yeah, I just had to play that. I almost forgot to mention that my mother-in-law is still wearing such a big smile because earlier, as we walked along the prison block, Jutta walked up to something on the wall and started laughing nearly hysterically, which brought Caroline and me over to see what captured her funny bone. She was reading the words on a red box that said, “Fire Hose,” well, her German mind looked at hose and translated it to pants, which is exactly what hose means in German. Fire pants were about the funniest thing she’d seen today.

Goodbye, Alcatraz Island, it’s time for us to go explore more of our freedom and to get out of San Francisco as other destinations beckon.

The corners of Kearny and Columbus mean two things: lunch again over at House of Nanking and a quick visit to City Lights Bookstore before leaving town. Then again, nothing is that easy.

A wrong turn forces us up another street and from the corner of my eye, I spot an unusual site. In a small park stand, about half a dozen people stared into a tree, some with hands aloft. The object of their attention is a small flock of cherry-headed conures. These wonderful birds were featured in a film titled The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. Seeing them was a moment of pure dumb luck. A friendly person shared some sunflower seeds with us that the birds clearly enjoyed. We had seen the trailer some time ago for the film but it never occurred to me that we might actually see them in person, let alone feed them. If you find yourself in San Francisco, keep your eyes on the sky for a loud bunch of green parrots weaving about overhead.

Our drive down the coast is a short one at only 78 miles, but we turn it into a crawl. Who wants to sacrifice even a moment of the glorious sea? Motels and dinner are best enjoyed in the dark anyway.

Turquoise, orange, red, blue, and tan, the colors of perfection until…

…things turn dark orange with shades of gold and hints of blue.

Our breakneck up-and-back trip already sees us going south. Here we are at the Pigeon Point Lighthouse for a quick look at the sunset before continuing on to Santa Cruz, where we’ll be staying the night. After check-in at our lodging, we’ll be right back out in a few minutes for dinner down in Capitola at Dharma’s Restaurant for some terrific vegetarian food; we know it’s good because it’s not the first time we have eaten there.