Sure was a swell time (for her foot)

THERE are many images from a trip to San Francisco that pop up at the oddest times -- the screaming Swiss tourist, the scalding cup of coffee turning over in slow motion. But the one that still haunts my nights, even a decade later, is the enraged Rottweiler chasing me up a staircase in Berkeley.

That trip had promise. It was the first real vacation my husband, Lou, our toddler, Jeffrey, and I had taken since the baby was born. We toyed with going to Hawaii, but our life as newbie parents was too frenzied to accommodate any big travel plans. So we simplified the fantasy and drove up the coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco, where we checked into a creaky old hotel that had been advertised as having a good location.

“It looked better in the picture,” I told Lou, a.k.a. Mr. Cheapo, whose only criterion was that it was inexpensive. Who cared that it was on the edge of the Tenderloin and that it sat on a street that was noisy, dirty and full of (not to put too fine a point on it) the flea-bitten?

I did, exhausted as I was from working full time as well as tending a frisky 18-month-old. I wanted to be pampered. On a beach in Maui. Sipping a mai tai and feeling warm sand under my toes.

But I made do. The next day was Sunday, and we drove across San Francisco Bay to Berkeley to meet friends for lunch at Spenger’s Fresh Fish Grotto, an old favorite. Afterward, we walked around Telegraph Avenue and the UC campus.

Lou and I had gone to college at Berkeley, and we always said we’d move back if the opportunity presented itself. So we cruised around Berkeley Hills looking for homes for sale. Up a winding road, I spotted an attractive one with an “open house” sign in front.

Because Jeffrey had fallen asleep, Lou stayed in the car, and I excitedly walked down the concrete stairs that led to the front door. It was wide open.

“Hello,” I yelled as I entered the top floor, looking for a real estate agent. No one greeted me.

I figured the person must be downstairs, so I climbed down a staircase to a dimly lighted ground floor.

“Hi,” I called out again, turning into the kitchen, expecting to see a smiling, eager agent with an outstretched hand.

No warm handshake. Just some face time with a heavy breather: a Rottweiler.

Endless seconds passed. Then I realized that this house wasn’t open for anything, and I was about to be one sorry-looking doggy treat.

With Fido following, I turned, tore up the stairs, sprinted for the open door, panted up more steps, leaped into the car and slammed the door.

“You won’t believe what just happened,” I gasped to Lou.

Then we looked next door. People were streaming up the walk -- to the actual open house.

*

A picnic without a park

BACK in San Francisco the next morning, we headed to the Safeway on Market Street to get supplies for a picnic in Golden Gate Park.

Walking out of the store, Lou carried the groceries and I picked up our rambunctious boy. I hadn’t slept well, replaying the doggy drama over and over, so I didn’t notice the curb blocking my way in the parking lot.

Next thing I knew, I went into free fall, hanging onto Jeffrey and twisting my body so he wouldn’t get hurt.

Jeffrey was fine, but I hit the ground -- hard. When I stood up, my right foot felt like someone had injected a jalapeno pepper into it.

We drove back to the hotel so I could ice it. That didn’t help. My foot was so green and swollen, it would have stolen Christmas from the Grinch.

Oh, we had our picnic, all right -- in a waiting room at UC San Francisco Medical Center, where, waiting for days it seemed, an exam and X-rays showed that I had broken my foot. More waiting to be fitted with a cast and crutches, then I was discharged -- floating on a cushion of pain medications.

Finally, I was getting the relaxation I craved. OK, so it wasn’t from sun, sea and sand but from a medicine bottle.

Back at the hotel, we settled in for a quiet night in our top-floor room, which had lovely city views from its huge, ancient window. Sleep came easily.

So did the middle-of-the-night earthquake.

We were startled awake by a lot of noise. There was a terrified Swiss woman screaming in German and pounding on our door. The window in our room banged furiously around in its frame, threatening to explode.

As the building rocked and rolled, Lou scooped up Jeffrey. I tried to hop toward the door on my good foot, gave up, then crawled.

The hotel continued to sway as we headed for the stairs, the Swiss tourist close on our heels. Then it stopped, and I, thankful that I didn’t have to slide down 10 flights of stairs, headed back to bed.

Lou and Jeffrey fell quickly back to sleep, but I lay there, eyes wide open, worrying. Even the painkillers failed to help.

We didn’t see the German-speaking tourist again. I suspect she checked out and flew home to solid, unswaying ground as soon as possible. We too bailed, this time heading south toward Pacific Grove, where we checked into a ground-floor room at a chain hotel, upgraded by a sympathetic desk receptionist who had broken her foot a few years before.

We drove to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Lou had rented a wheelchair that morning and Jeffrey plopped into my lap to “drive” it. A security guard walked us to the head of the line. The day was lovely.

This vacation was finally looking up.

The next morning, true relaxation came at last. We lounged, then Lou brought breakfast back to our room. I was showering, so he set my coffee down on the sink ... which is where Jeffrey found it.

His screams yanked me out of the shower. I grabbed him and covered his torso with wet, cold towels. Lou raced him to the nearest hospital.

When the ER doc examined Jeffrey, he said he had no burns and that he was fine. Then he chided Lou for overreacting.

Easy for him to say -- our nerves were shot.

That night, the last one of the trip, was the closest I got to my Hawaiian fantasy. We had mahi-mahi and mai tais at an oceanfront restaurant as the sun dropped into the sea.

This was one vacation we were glad to say aloha to.