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     Surfacing out of dark green water a 500-pound sea lion bull exhaled with a splutter, took a breath, and looked around.  Behind him stood the two-storied, north end of Pier 39, with all its boutique tourist shops and restaurants.  Getting its bearings, the huge bull submerged and scooted barely underwater without creating a ripple. 

     After a while the enormous sea lion surfaced and found himself in the middle of K-Dock, containing 25 heavy-duty wooden floats, supporting some 60-plus sea lions sunning themselves.  Since September of 1989 the sea lions took over the K-Dock area, in the Pier 39 Marina, and eventually became an important tourist attraction. 

      Exhaling loudly, the sea lion bull checked the area for a dry landing spot.  Selecting one, he swam for a float with three, smaller, female sea lions on it.  Pulling his slick, dark-chocolate, tremendous 500-pound bulk halfway out of the water – causing the entire float to tip precariously – prompts a dry female, half his size, to become seriously annoyed at this wet, oversized intruder.  Barking loudly the dry female went after the wet sea lion bull with bared teeth!

     In “shock and awe,” I witnessed this socially unattractive behavior from the second-storied, picture window of the Sea Lion Café.

     Muttering under my breath, egging the female on, I said, “That’s it, baby, don’t take any crap off that big lug!  Bite him on the ass!  Hit the road, Jack!”

     Unable to resist the dry female’s onslaught, the wet bull reluctantly slid off the float, and swam away in search of quieter pastures.

     I raised my glass of California Chardonnay in a toast to the female sea lion’s triumph.  After taking a sip, I held the glass of wine up to the light.  It’s a crisply-clear October afternoon on the bay; the sunlight possessing that special California quality.  Causing me to admire how the light filters through my glass making the Chardonnay sparkle; reminding me of Galileo Galilei’s words: “Wine is sunlight held together by water.”

     And why shouldn’t my California Chardonnay “sparkle?”  Since during a “blind wine tasting” in 1976, at Paris, France, California Chardonnays took first, third and fourth places, according to the strictly French judges, beating the pants off all the French wines!  In fact a bottle of Chateau Montelena's 1973 Chardonnay, that took first place at Paris in 1976, is on permanent display at the Smithsonian.

     In honor of this accomplishment, I raised my glass of California Chardonnay, and made another toast; saying aloud, “Screw the French!”  Then took another sip.

     Oh, dear reader, how sweetly that sip went down.

     Afterward, I made the mistake of glancing at my fake Rolex, which registered 2:13 P.M.  I’m seated so I can watch the entrance’s double glass doors.  

     “Where the hell is she?” I think.  “She was supposed to be here at two.”

     I’m edgy, dear reader, simply because my visit to the deli has painted a bull’s eye on my back; giving me an impending feeling of doom.  Making me wonder who and how many will catch up with me, plus when and where they’ll perform their dirty deed on me.  Nuts with it!  Relax...it’s a beautiful day.  Don’t waste a second of it.

     So I followed my advice, took a deep breath, and scanned my surroundings.  It’s well after the lunch hour, and, besides myself, there are only two other couples in this long, narrow cafe, seated at different tables.  Gazing out the wide picture window I’m seated next to, I once again studied the basking sea lions at K-Dock, then Forbes Island beyond, with its 40-foot lighthouse and palm trees, floating in a corner of Pier 39’s Marina.  Well behind this, at the next wharf, is docked the sleek, black submarine USS Pampanito and the majestic Liberty Ship S.S. Jeremiah O’Brien.  Both are proudly maintained U.S. displayed relics of World War II.  

     And in the far distance, almost at the horizon line, is the Golden Gate Bridge in the process of being swallowed up by a massive fog bank flowing in from the Pacific.

     I took another sip of wine, relaxed and enjoyed the “show.”  This million-dollar view is a typical San Francisco postcard.

     One of the glass doors at the entrance swung open; Gia DeCarlo entered the cafe.  She’s wearing an ankle-length, navy topcoat, with a long, red silk scarf wrapped around her throat and shoulders, a V-neck turquoise pullover, skin-tight, washed-out flared jeans, designer-sneakers, and leather Gucci shoulder bag.  Her glossy, raven-colored hair is combed straight back, and falls well below her shoulder blades.  Removing her dark glasses revealed attractive Eurasian features, bearing little makeup, which framed exotic, obsidian, almond-shaped eyes.

Gia performing at the O’Farrell Theater.

     Setting down my wine, I immediately stood.  Gia spotted me right off, smiled warmly, and strode towards me on those beautifully, long, dancers’ “getaway sticks.”  I noticed both the women and men in this café are checking Gia out.

     Oh, yes, dear reader, Gia is that stunning.

     I stepped to the other side of my table and pulled out a chair for her.  She gave me a warm hug, and said, “Thanks so much for calling and inviting me out to lunch, Uncle Petie.  I really needed to get out of my cave.”

     Taking her scarf, coat and bag, I set them on a chair as I said, “Y-You’re entirely welcome, Pumpkin.”

     We sat facing each other, next to the picture window.

     And instantly, dear reader, pig that I am, I zeroed in on Gia’s lovely, erect nipples under her soft, woolen pullover.  Clearly she’s bra-less.

     “P-Perhaps you’re not aware of this, Gia...” I remarked, “...this happens to be a f-family restaurant.  They have a dress code.”

     Gia frowned, and asked, “Oh yeah?  What is it?”

     I poured wine for Gia from a carafe, and flatly replied, “Clean socks and a b-bra.”

     Gia Laughed, and retorted, “Tough Tootsie Roll!  I’ve got the afternoon off and the ‘twins’ are gonna run wild and free.”

     I raised my glass in a toast, saying, “H-Here’s to the ‘twins’ forever running wild and free.”

     We both laughed, touched glasses with a “clink,” and sipped our Chardonnay.

     Setting her glass down, Gia began to also examine her surroundings, and commented, “I’ve never been here before, Pete.  Would you look at all those seals?  God...what a neat place for lunch.”  After a pause, and taking it all in, she asked, “And they’ve got a lighthouse here too?”

     “Oh, yeah...” I replied.  “That’s actually Forbes Island a man-made, concrete floating island and r-restaurant.”

     “But it’s got palm trees,” Gia exclaimed.

     “That’s not my fault,” I confessed.

     After Gia gives me a facial expression, that implies “give me a break,” I continued.  “I’m told the main dining room is apparently underwater w-where fish and sea lions swim past its portholes. 

     It’s roughly f-fifty feet wide, a hundred feet long, weighs 700 t-tons, with a forty-foot lighthouse, a bamboo and palm tree garden, plus, similar to a bar of Ivory Soap, it f-floats.”

     Astonished, Gia blurted, “Unbelievable!”  Then she asked, “How do you get out there?”

     “Oh...somewhere d-downstairs they’ve got a courtesy phone,” I speculated.  “For a f-fee they’ll send over their Kon Tiki-type water-shuttle to pick you up.  Except, I t-think ya gotta have reservations.”

     “Sounds pricey,” Gia imagined.

     “You can b-bet your gold fillings on that,” I added.  “The restaurant’s c-cuisine is French, so plan on a seriously dented wallet...it’s not your average t-trip to Taco Bell.”

     Gia chuckled, and then asked, “Speaking of islands...tell me about your island, Pete.  Where do you live on Phuket?”

     Before I could answer, the waiter arrived to take our order: Gia had the Cobb salad, I ordered the Caesar salad and clam chowder.  He also brought a large basket of Boudin’s sourdough bread.  Ever since the Gold Rush Days of 1849, the Boudin family has used an ancient, time-honored method of making the “mother dough” with local wild yeast “caught” from the fog-laden air, imparting a flavor and texture unlike any other bread in the world.

     “I used to lease a t-town house in Patong Beach,” I began in answer to Gia’s question, “on Phuket’s west shore.  Only it proved to be more space, trouble and upkeep than I needed.  So I m-moved to a sweet, compact five-storied hotel, on a jungle-covered m-mountain ridge overlooking Patong Bay, with a rainforest creek running past the s-swimming pool.”

     “I’ll even wager your island paradise is also lousy with fresh tropical fruit and pristine beaches,” Gia suggested.

     “Wow...s-sounds as if you’ve been there!” I exclaimed.

     “Nope...not Phuket...a place like it,” Gia replied, then took a sip of her wine and wistfully perused the sea lions outside.  After a moment, she continued, “My dad was in the Navy and based at Subic Bay in the Philippines.  That’s how he met my mom.  As a teenager I used to take trips with Mom back to Cebu to visit her people.  We’d stay at a simple bungalow in the jungle, shop at the local market for fresh fruit, and fritter away the day on a white beach.  I fell in love with that natural, easy-going way of life.”  Gia took another sip of wine, then studied me and said, “Lately, when I’m stuck bumper to bumper on the 405 in L.A., I find myself daydreaming more and more of those lazy days on Cebu.”

     “Whoa, jungle girl...that doesn’t s-sound good,” I observed. “How’re you and your b-boyfriend getting along?”

     Gia frowned, took a healthy hit of wine, and then replied, “Frankly...it’s not the best in the west.  He works at Capitol Records in Hollywood and wants to be a music producer.  

     To achieve this he’s got to wear the right clothes, drive the right cars and be seen at the right clubs in order to meet the right people.  This takes money...a lot of money.”  Gia belted back her wine and offered her glass for a refill.  I obliged by pouring more Chardonnay for her.  As I did so she said, “That’s why I commute up here and work double shifts at the O’Farrell.  He keeps telling me once he’s a producer I can stop.”

     “But...I s-suspect you’re getting a bit tired prostituting your p-principles,” I surmised.

     “Uncle Petie...I’m so worn-out I’ve forgotten where I lost my principles,” Gia wearily replied, then took another deep hit on her wine.  After a very pregnant interval, she looked me dead in the eye, and stated, ”I need a Thai massage.”

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