USA - get lost magazine digital issue 20

A wild ride through San Francisco’s boozy, beat-poet underbelly.

Words and Images Roberto Serrini

A wild ride through San Francisco’s boozy, beat-poet underbelly.

Words and Images Roberto Serrini

I first met Jamo not long after my wife and I split up. I was 20 years old, and like most found myself backpacking across Europe,

She was an Aussie named Eva. We met in an olive grove in Florence and a year later I proposed to her on a beach in Melbourne. I was too young and dumb to keep it together so we split and I found myself once again at ol’ Tom Bergins on Fairfax, earning my shamrock by drowning the remnants of my emotions in a flood of Guinness and Glenmorangie. That’s where I heard the booming Australian “Jamo” who's familiar accent made me feel like everything was dead. At least that’s what he tells me on the phone nearly 25 years later.

I first met Jamo not long after my wife and I split up. I was 20 years old, and like most found myself backpacking across Europe,

Transamerica Pyramid. Love it or...

Vesuvio. If these walls could write.

North Beach's salubrious venues.

Chinatown.

“You honestly don’t remember, mate?!” he explodes. “I clearly remember you ordering us something called a “Car Bomb” and I was like, 'What is that?'”

Now, if you know Australians, you know three things: first, they’re tried and true through thick and thin. Second, they have an insatiable passion for travel. Third, they are the world’s best imbibers. To teach an Australian a new way to consume alcohol is an extremely rare feat, which apparently has kept our meeting fresh in Jamo’s mind. A year or so later, he offered me a chance to write for his magazine Get Lost, ultimately changing my life forever.

Burgundy wine, a sammy from Molinaria's and sunshine ... doesn't get much better

Despite having sent me to seven continents, dozens of countries, and scores of cities, we two travel hounds rarely get the pleasure of being in the same place at the same time. So when word comes through that he’ll be in San Francisco covering the new Counter Culture Museum, it’s a no-brainer when he invites me up to join him.

Ordinarily, I don’t preload an angle when I explore the world; typically I want the world to wash over me, naked, without expectation of perspective, like a true Dharma bum. This isn’t an ordinary trip, however, it is a pilgrimage. I am meeting my travel brother to feast on the mana of true travel legends: the great Beat poets. The Counter Culture Museum celebrates those that first influenced me to get on the road.

The 1952 Nicca 3s to see SF through Kerouac's eyes.

They brought me to my first love. They led me to Jamo. Now I am returning, miles under my feet, to knock back on their door. I think to myself... “would Kerouac even recognise his beloved San Francisco today? Would he dig it? ”Only one way to find out.

I grab my ’52 Nicca 3s, the Japanese knock-off of the Leica DRP that Jack was known to shutter, which I figure is the closest I’m going to get to see San Francisco through his eyes. I pack my Italian green leather duffle only with the tools they would have had: drawers, socks, boots, shirts, straps, cards, smokes, notebook, flask, shades, church key, timepiece, and a turtleneck, of course. I hit the road.

San Francisco greets me with precious sunshine and rare blue skies. The air is soft, and the promise of every cobbled alley so great that I think I am in a dream. On seeing the city, you easily understand the appeal to the Beats; the ocean, redwood forests, and rolling hills seamlessly feed into their growing interest in Buddhism, Zen, Eastern philosophy, and rejection of rampant consumerism. Everyone here is conscious and considerate, naturally more woke then the rest of the nation. Being a port city and a longtime refuge for weirdos and wanderers, it is a natural haven for artists, and is miraculously still that today. Best put in Kerouac’s words: “San Francisco is the only city I can think of that can survive all the things you people are doing to it and still look beautiful.” Sick burn Jack.

An old Beat, beret intact.

There is literally poetry in the air here.

A letter to Frank. "I'll do it my way".

Early, but not absurdly so, after a morning pastry at B. Patisserie, we slide by Hotel Emblem and Buddha smiles as our room is ready; Frank Sinatra is playing on the in-room record player as we enter, which sits next to an old black Royal typewriter ready with fresh, crisp sheets of white paper for inspiration. This funky little literary hotel with its wall quotes and book sculptures perfectly sets the mood as I pour two shots of Bespoken local bourbon, take two puffs of hand-rolled California Gold, and descend into the screaming city.

The Hotel Emblem's literary lobby.

Bourbon shots: a classic Beat breakfast.

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We hustle down to the Pan America monstrosity only to find we have missed our Beat Poet in SF tour. “Well,” I cowboy with a drag of a smoke, “let’s roll over to Vesuvio for a drink. They’re bound to pass by there if they’re talking Beats.” And so we do. Vesuvio Cafe at 11:30 in the morning is about as perfect as a place can be; empty, save two local fixtures and a chatty bartender who always keeps your cup full.

“No, no tours have come by this morning,” the young bearded barkeep waxes as he pours the first Guinness of the day, “but they don’t ever come inside really.”

Almost on cue, two guides in red jackets dock a small group of people just outside the bar. We slam our pints, are welcomed into the group, and descend down the back alleys of North Beach to submerge in Beat history.

No BS here - SF Tours brings the history of the city to life in living colour.

The Beat Tour well underway.

The tour is sensational with its constant stream of poignant history fuelled by the occasional dip into a bar for a quick shot keeping in Beat tradition. I built most of my youthful identity on the Beats; my formative years consisted of a constant copy of On The Road strategically stuffed in my back pocket, dog-eared and stained from months of backpacking across Europe that I casually hoped everyone would notice.

Young men and women woke up to the dystopian reality that what politicians were promising was never going to precipitate.

Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs and the likes were born out of a post-war demented America, where the American Dream and America First attitude was overwhelmingly being pushed down American throats. Young men and women woke up to the dystopian reality that what politicians were promising was never going to precipitate. Sound familiar?

"Howl," a direct response to this new pro-American mentality, was amendment-be-damned banned in '57, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, owner of City Lights Bookstore, was even arrested for continuing to sell it. They fought furiously to overturn the ruling, which kept open the gates of future artistic expression; Miller, Salinger, Mapplethorpe, Sprinkle, Warhol, Flynn, Carlin, 4CHAN, Pornhub, you and me, all protected to freely express ourselves because “Howl” would not be silenced.

My original copy still fits in my back pocket.

San Francisco, and the Beats that called it home, were the O.G. middle finger to that misguided American neo-fascism, that all feels way too shockingly fresh and hauntingly similar to the radical conservative changes happening today.

The Beat Museum's remarkable collection doesn't get more intimate.

Some of the Beat Museum's remarkable collection.

Like lacework, our hosts end the tour outside the Beat Museum, which is tucked happily between the old, fabulous strip joints off Columbus Avenue. Behind the counter we meet Brendon, who vibes like a young Kerouac in his plaid shirt and combed-back hair.

"Oh yeah, welcome! Jerry said you guys would be stopping by, lemme, uh, lemme show you around." And boy does he; this beautiful human Wikipedia of all things Beat. The museum has a casual and inviting aura, probably since it started as a wandering Airstream travelling show that Jerry Cimino and John Cassidy (son of Kerouac's Neal Cassidy) drove back and forth across the country, now permanently fixed where these legends lived and loved.

Brandon. The Beat Master.

"Is that … the car?" I mumble under the brown whale of a 1949 Hudson Commodore towering over me.

"Sure is. Wanna get in?" Brendon grins.

Being a journalist has its perks; I've eaten 26 courses at the chef's table with Virgilio at Central in Lima. I’ve drank cold Corona’s in a hot tub on a Russian research vessel watching polar bears feast on ice flows. To sit in the same car that fuels Kerouac's journey across America in On The Road, however, gives me immediate travel writer chills.

"You can understand how he lives in this thing for months on end. It's a couch with wheels, basically. True freedom."

Kerouac's 1949 Hudson Commodore: The OG Airbnb.

Everything at the museum is like this from seeing Jack's jacket that kept him warm on the road, the actual typewriter Ginsberg's pudgy fingers pounded out his epic poem Howl, right down to their lightersshoelaces, and bits and bobs donated by friends who knew these literary gods personally. It’s a living history, and nothing gets you closer to this movement than this beautiful shrine and its divine custodian Brendon.

Drunk now on the poetry of it all, Jamo and I dive back into the undulating city streets with whiskey and Beat-tinted glasses.

We beeline it to the legendary Molinari's, and like locals, slide a slab of fresh focaccia to Gianni behind the gleaming case of imported meats. "Mortadella, mozzarella and a little sale e olio bello, per favore," I say with a wink and get a nod. Three minutes later, Jamo and I are on a bench in Washington Square with fresh mozz juice happily running down our chins as we take swigs of Sangiovese in the sun.

Now feeling a bit over-carbed, we stroll to Buena Vista Cafe and are quickly administered two perfect Irish Coffees that Kerouac surely wrapped his lips around back in '52 considering they estimate that they’ve made over 32 million of them since opening.

"There is a … balloon museum," I mumble through a furrowed brow at Jamo, looking at my phone.

"Like, a balloon museum?" he says past a thick line of cream on his top lip.

"Forty-five American dollars?" I say at the ticket booth in mild confusion. "Each? These are … balloons, yes?"

Just one thanks!

An adult ball pit?

Our doubt dissolves to full-on awe as we enter the strange, hauntingly beautiful inflatable world of Emotionair: Art You Can Feel. Walking through giant, hands-on exhibitions of exploding colour and tactile interaction, this is one of the most fun and jolting museum experiences I’ve ever had. Children and adults alike run around overwhelmed by giant balloons that can crush you, light shows that you can touch, and giant breathing pillows you can lounge upon. If there is ever a place made for taking mind-altering substances, this is it, and without question, Kerouac and his crew would madly approve.

Afterwards, Jamo and I exhale with a local lager at the SF Brewing Co. Beer Garden and plan our attack on the night. "I say we have a one or two here, then bounce over through Chinatown and dig that whole scene for a sec, before dining on a succulent Chinese meal Jamo my dear friend," I say between frantic gulps of crisp pilsner, "then from there I have a bit of a surprise in store for us, nothing too crazy mind you, but something special that should prove enjoyable for sure." So it is, and as we finish our dregs and hop through the city, accidentally crashing through Downtown First Thursdays; a wild street festival that has all sorts of performers, arts, and local crafts amidst an al fresco dance party complete with a giant disco ball hanging from a 40 foot crane, proclaiming loudly exactly what the Beats would dig, a free, artistic explosion of unbridled madness reverberating against the steel and stone of glorious downtown.

A street party every month. Of course SF!

We ramble through the Stockton Street tunnel, casually sipping more burgundy from the bottle, and are birthed into our beloved Chinatown. The alleys of this place are like secret rivers of perfume and old wisdom and the whisper of silk shoes. We wander under paper lanterns and strings of tiny lights like some lost Dharma Bums in search of the old Chinese poets. You can hear a thousand years in the clatter of Chinatown dishes and the sudden laughter of a girl leaning from a window. It’s just as vibrant as Kerouac painted it almost a century ago.

That’s when Jamo, horrorshow-like, grabs my shoulder outside of 756 Commercial Street and points up. There, in the third-floor window of this unassuming apartment building, is a sign that says "Happy Hour Daily 3pm to 6pm." The lights inside are bouncing, but we see no sign of entry anywhere on the street.

"You think we just found the world's greatest speakeasy?" he says with reserved excitement. Riveted at the prospect of hitting travel gold, I let out a sharp whistle at the open window. A second later, a man leans out with a big smile.

"What's up?" he says with a wave.

"Hey! What's the deal with the bar?" I say.

"What bar?" he replies.

"The bar!” I point at him and the sign next to him, “The happy hour sign in the window."

"Oh that! That's just decoration. There's no bar." he says grinning proud as punch.

"Decoration?!" I say, letting out a hoot. "That there, sir, is a sign! C'mon. How many people come by and ask you where's the bar at?"

"You're the first!" he says with a giant laugh, and we can't believe it. Rodney, the cat that lives in the barless apartment, might be the nicest stranger we meet in SF, inviting us for a beer like two wayward gutter punks, and if that isn't Beat, then I don't know what is.

Now in true dire need of nourishment, we crawl into Z&R Peking Duck. The owner gives us a big hurried hello and a wide table all to ourselves along with cold beer and plum juice to “aid in recovery”. A marathon of delights floods the banquette: crab hot and sour soup, steamed pork dumplings, crispy duck skin with caviar, little fried scallop-filled egg rolls, short ribs in shitake sauce, savory black soy string beans, and perky buns painted like ripe apples filled with a sweet shrimp paste. Then the showstopper: a perfectly prepared Peking Duck with all the trimmings, sliced thin and hot and crispy that melts in your mouth almost like an afterthought.

Full and fabulous we get back on the beat tip and cruise the Golden Sardine, a funky little wine-bar-turned-speakeasy-poetry-house aptly named by the way people pack into their upstairs happening. Spoken word is alive and well as we listen to local poets spill truth over tipping glasses of tinto, booming mad verse just as when Jack and Allen roamed these vibrant streets.

Live poetry still going strong in North Beach.

Poems and Pinot spill out into the street from the packed Golden Sardine.

Too full and too drunk to do much, we bumble across the street into Key’s on Broadway. The legendary Jazz Mafia is blowing Hancock’s SF-recorded “Thrust” and “Headhunters,” and the owner crams us into a tiny table to watch them wail. Jazz and the Beats go hand in hand: both instruments against the status quo sharing the same soulful, unhinged rhythm. The dulcet tones of the quintet aid our digestion along with a Rusty Nail or two, and before we know it, we’re off again to tear a hole in the night.

Key's on Broadway.

Jazzed up and boozed out, we duck into an impromptu sit-in at Foreign Cinema, a beloved Frisco institution. Paired with good Italian wine and great chatty company, we nibble on some fresh delights as we bask in the glow of Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window projected on the bare back wall. Part resto, part revival house, part art gallery with a full bar, Foreign Cinema gives you al fresco fabulous in every bite as you rub elbows with the artists, lovers, and diviants that call the city home.

“It’s time to repent, dear Jamo! We’ve had a day of sin, and it’s time to repent!” I preach at him as we pull up to The Chapel. Our names are at the door with two press passes, allowing me to bring a camera into what is normally a cardinal sin. Inside, our eyes melt from the stars burning on stage as the infamous Emma Veuxdevil’s Cobweb Cabaret and her battalion of bodacious burlesque dancers perform a torrent of heart-attack-inducing acts to a heaving and howling crowd. We lose ourselves in the tidal wave of passion panic, the crowd as dangerous as the performers on stage, the show now happening all around us, as we are the show performing for the performers.

It's a full house at the Cobweb Cabaret.

The incredible Emma Veuxdevil.

Utterly heart attack inducing.

Before we can wipe the sweat from our brows we’re spit back out to get good and drunk in Chinatown, listening to the old men laughing in the back rooms while all America snores in its orderly doom. Over Mai Tais and sweaty bottles of Tsingtao at Li Po, we get into a ruckus with two kids from the East Bay and hook them onto our comet as we light up the thinning night.

“The magic of Chinatown knows no bounds!” I howl as we pour shots down each other’s throats. We all squeeze into the positively historic Condor Club for one last historic dance, then pour back out onto the streets where the rest of San Francisco seems to be waiting for us. Almost on cue a maroon Buick screeches up to us.

“You wanna have some fun with us, cutie?” one of the four girls hanging out of the car yells, lit joint in hand, before peeling off at the sight of a cop car behind them in a cloud of laughter.

Frisco is still very much that raw port town, not much different than the 1950s or 1850s it would seem, and its beautiful chaos blooms around us in the dark. In a world where travel has become an echo chamber of pre-consumed vanilla experiences, San Francisco effortlessly remains boldly unique and confident in its wonderful, freaky identity, no matter what you try do to it.

Somewhere between the flesh shows and back alleys of Chinatown, Jamo and I misplace our friends and stumble into the unfortunately named but exquisitely curated Cold Drinks for a nightcap. “Martini?” I say in my best stroke-like Sean Connery slur.

“No mate. Martinez,” retorts Jamo, as the beautiful Russian bartender smirks with a raised eyebrow, clearly commending the pro choice, as she pours a perfect frosted glass full of gin, sweet vermouth, maraschino liqueur, and bitters. I let it slide down my throat and curse at how good it is.

“This is … brilliant,” I say, marvelling that after a life dedicated to the various ways to get drunk, I have yet to come across a Martinez.

“Told ya,” Jamo says, sipping his own, and I nod. I let myself enjoy the moment, thinking of how it’s all full circle. How we came here to celebrate the influence of the Beats. How culture moves in circles. How even our friendship started with a new drink that would never be forgotten. Who knows what new worlds open up with this sip. And the next one. What lives will be lived. Where the road will take us.

The Martinez. Order one. Trust me.

Before the glass hits the bar we are cracked back out into the dark of the city, which in turn spits us back to our room, where I shut my eyes for a couple of hours. As day breaks, I grab my bag, a final shot, and a cab to the airport. It’s over as fast as it starts. The beautiful chaos and freaky freedom that the Beats came for is without question still blooming here in the Golden Gate city. As I roll out of town, behind us lies the whole of America and everything Jamo and I previously knew about life, and life on the road, the same copy of which sits comfortably in my back pocket as another life changing trip writes itself out. We had finally found the magic land at the end of the road and we never dreamed the extent of the magic that is San Francisco.