I am absolutely exhausted. It’s 10:40 at night as I type this, and I’m on the verge of sleep.

And yet, for reasons I can’t exactly explain, I figured now was a good time to tell you about my accidental trip to the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park. I’ve embarked on this post, knowing that I’ve been putting it off for weeks, and that writing it will take me forever. What can I say? I make bad decisions.

And bad decisions are largely to blame for how I ended up there in the first place. You might remember my ill-fated attempts to get to the Presidio. On my second attempt, I ended up near Ghirardelli Square, and, high on chocolate fumes, stumbled over to Maritime National Park. At the time, I didn’t even know what it was.

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The park includes a fleet of six boats, moored at the Hyde Street Pier. On the day that I went, some of the boats were closed due to strong winds and choppy waves. I have concluded that these boats must have been boring, and that I missed nothing. If you attended the park and know this to be otherwise, please do not tell me.

Past this sign? Pure lameness. Or so I hope.

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The continuing saga of how I made it to see John Harrison’s clock. Don’t forget to read Part 1.

In the past, I’ve gotten very stressed out while traveling, particularly when things don’t go as planned. Since starting the blog, though, I’ve found that even the mishaps are worthwhile. Though it’s completely contrary to my prepare-for-anything Type-A personality, I actually find myself to be the sort of person who sits back and laughs when things go awry, thinking, “Well, at least this will make a great blog post.”

Or so I like to tell myself. In truth, there’s still a little voice in the back of my head screaming, “YOU ARE GOING TO GET KILLED BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHERE YOU ARE GOING!” (okay, so maybe it’s not so little a voice). But  I can’t very well listen to it, because if I did, I would just sit in my hotel room panicking all the time. So I blindly head out, determined to explore a city, and not let anything hold me back.

This occassionally backfires. The morning that I decided to go see Harrison’s clocks, I may have neglected to actually look up where it was. Someone told me to go to North Greenwich, so I hopped on a tube from Tottenham Station. I transfered at Waterloo, and took a second tube to North Greenwich, feeling rather proud of myself. (more…)

This post marks 1 month (four weeks) of consecutive posting. So I figured this entry had better be a doozy. And considering that it began more than 10 years ago, I suppose it is.

It begins with a clock.

No, wait. No, it doesn’t.

It begins with a book.

No, no that’s not right, either.

Let’s just begin with a chimp. Because all great stories begin with chimps. (more…)