Bridge School Weekend

Holly's Book Club recently read a book about personality types. You know the books: take a "test" that some touchy-feely psychologist whipped up during Oprah commercial breaks, said test plops you into some conveniently oversimplified boxes (Feeler, Leader, Introvert, Giver, Taker, Candlestick Maker), then breaks down how you interact with people in different categories. Pretty soon, you find yourself talking to each other using terms that some arbitrary psychologist you've never met invented while his/her marriage was flailing and he/she was regrouping amid the pina coladas of Cabo. "See! That's the SF/OT in you! ALWAYS THE SF/OT!!!" "Oh, that makes sense. Because you're a FI/CM with a dash of IA...."

Doesn't happen to anyone else? Oh.

The reason I bring this up (besides to bolster the wordcount, tick off my word-averse friend Scott, and weed out the amateurs) is because the book verified something I already knew about myself: I love tradition. I love that we got to open a present on Christmas Eve that was always pajamas (and the unspoken tradition that we'd never wear them again). I love the eggnog/Sprite/ice cream concoction that my Aunt Laura always used to brew up at my Grandma Garff's house. I love that some people just have to take a little swim between the piers when they're at Hebgen. I almost always get a Jamba Juice for breakfast when I know my day at work is going to be long and not awesome. I used to watch U2's Rattle & Hum every Thanksgiving night. If I'm in Driggs in the summer, I'm getting a lime freeze at Corner Drug. You get the point.

Eleven years ago, my friend Billy and I went to the Bridge School for the first time and- then and there- vowed to make it a tradition. Last weekend was Bridge School Weekend, my 11th and Holly's 5th. Without question, it's one of the things I look forward to the most all year with some amazing friends and family. Billy (& Adair), in the throes of Billy's residency and 3 kids, sadly had to opt out this year and cousin Mark had other fish to fry, but we spent some good time with the Curtises, the Owens, and the Wheelers (who took all the pictures because our camera is MIA and already did a better, less wordy documentation on their blog, and yes we are using the exact same pictures).


Overlooking the Sutro baths. Not pictured: inhumane port-o-potties.

With the Golden Gate in the background and me, looking like one of those cheesy Mormon paintings where the wicked person is enveloped in shadows.

FRIDAY
We made a long weekend out of it at our generous and out-of-town friends' house in Menlo Park. We spent Friday in The City with Jason & Mandy and Ben & Dana. Holly got some new boots. I got my favorite burrito at Taqueria Cancun (thanks forever, Pat), which is becoming its own tradition. Jason gave us the locals' driving tour (above)- Golden Gate Park, the Sutro baths, the people who need the Sutro baths the most (the Haight), tasty dinner at EOS, Mitchell's ice cream, and finally Where The Wild Things Are (IMAX even).

THE CONCERT
After an easy morning and a bike ride to breakfast, we made it over to Shoreline. The lineup:
Gavin Rossdale (Bush, not good), Wolfmother (hire a bassist, friends), Fleet Foxes (ruled- amazing harmonies and the way their songs develop is unreal), Monster Of Folk (monsters of ok), Sheryl Crow (2-for-5) Chris Martin (Coldplay, very good), Jimmy Buffett (see also: ex- Carnival cruise employees fronted by that drunk guy with the guitar you and all your sweet bros loved during that one spring break in Cancun), No Doubt (surprisingly good), and of course Neil Young.

During Jimmy Buffett's set. Before he started, I turned to our friends and said, "I can't decide which is going to be worse: Jimmy Buffett or Jimmy Buffett's FANS." Holly shot me a quick cease-and-desist look. Apparently, we were surrounded. The tie-dyed gentleman next to me rocked out the whole set, chanting when the Parrotheads chanted. Really, I was just relieved all the excitement didn't send him into cardiac arrest.

Us, the Owenses (behind), the Wheelerses. Not pictured: The Curtises, who were highrolling it up on the second row. Minutes after this photo, Holly reprimanded Jason for not really liking The Beatles. It's safe to say that anybody who was seated in our section went home and promptly bought or listened to Abbey Road.

Thanks to our parents for taking care of Leo. Thanks to Leo for sleeping for our parents. Thanks to the Hutchings for letting us crash at their place. Thanks to Jason for driving. Thanks to Mandy for photodocumenting. And thank you for reading this far about nothing. Hopefully you own Abbey Road.