After a cancelled trip, due to overbooking and an abundance of Spring Break travelers, I finally made it to San Francisco, California. The City by the Bay, the place to go with flowers in your hair and where turn of the century cable cars take you up and down hills of gigantic proportions. I now know why Otis Redding made a dock his home, he didn’t want to trudge up Hyde Street. Where sea lions bark and the fish is caught the day you eat it. A city that is so retro you almost forget that it’s 2010. San Francisco is one of the most unique places I’ve ever been, and by unique I mean it stumped me, I could not figure it out. While it has a wonderful aesthetic, there were certain things that defied my logic. San Francisco is beautifully complicated.
As I sit in a seat bolted to a floor in a tin can some thirty thousand or so feet in the air, I look out and witness the majestic mountain ranges of the West. Peaks with snow caps and valleys carved into the ranges that look so pristine and untouched by man, truly a beautiful sight. I thought about the pioneers and the people long gone who made their way through these ranges to find a better life. My mind went through a brief history lesson, and then the pilot’s voice snapped me back to reality. Our flight was ahead of schedule and the sun was shining, California here I come.
I booked a car service to pick us up and take us to our hotel in Union Square. Our drivers name was Romeo, a small Phillipino man with a big smile and wonderful disposition. “Are you here for a convention?” he asked. He had a certain pride about San Francisco that you could hear in his voice. He has lived here for thirty eight years and was extremely excited when we told him why we were visiting. “You’re going to love it here, it’s fabulous! We have the best food and has lots of character.” As we take the freeway into the city, I look to my left and see hills and mountains, to my right the famous Bay, Candlestick Park and just on the horizon San Francisco.
As we pull off the free way I see may different types of architecture, both old and modern, tall and short. I ask Romeo, where the “wine” country is. And he tells me it’s in Napa and Sonoma, but that was not the “wine country” I was referring to. Some locals refer to “skid row” as the wine country, where the streets are lined with winos, junkies and homeless people. I explain to him what I meant and he just started laughing, saying he has never heard of that and then in the same breath says “it’s about a block away from your hotel”. Really? Yes, Really.
Still driving and observing, I notice that downtown San Francisco was not as clean or as well maintained as I thought it would be. It just didn’t feel like I was in California. I guess I had this predisposition that California was this uber clean, well maintained place where littering was outlawed. T.V. Has done some major damage to my perception. I mean take Full House for example, rows of brightly painted Edwardian homes on a tree lined street, where everything looked pristine and well kept. The San Francisco I saw was more like Dirty Harry rather than The Tanner’s. I was a bit disappointed. I stopped looking out the car’s window. We pull up to our hotel, which had it’s own covered driveway and proceed to the front desk.
Our room was not ready, it was only 9:30AM so we decided to get breakfast. Not knowing a thing about the city I Yelp a breakfast place within walking distance of the hotel. There were so many to choose from, so I decided on the first one listed with four stars. The Taylor Street Coffee Shop. I pull up a map and start walking, not but ten seconds into our walk, I see a gaggle of homeless men. “Can you spare some change?” one says in an almost hazed tone. Now let me say I don’t mind homeless people asking for money, I was once homeless myself, but the amount of homeless people I encountered in San Francisco was almost appalling. They were everywhere, no matter where I turned, someone was asking me for something. We find the coffee shop and it was not what your could define as a true coffee shop. It was long and narrow with about ten tables, all taken, so we decided to wait for an available one. And I’m glad we did, probably one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had.
We had several appointments to look at apartments that day and decided to walk to the first one located in SoMa, the area that is South of Market St. Wile walking we were accosted by at least ten homeless people all needing some random amount of money, from thirty cents to a dollar, all seemingly needing to get on a bus or train. My first thought was to tell them to walk, but I refrained from making any eye contact let alone a verbal response. Once we were clear of the beggars, San Francisco seemed peaceful. We make our first appointment early, view the property and were left disenchanted. Lots of money for not a lot of anything, this was not the treat I was looking for. Surely there has to be a deal in this housing market, no matter what part of the country you reside. We decide to walk back to the hotel go to our room and relax for a bit.
After a brief respite, we make way to our next appointment, a “high rise” on a hill. On our walk I notice there were more flop houses, you know those daily, weekly, monthly rate run down hotel type of places. I imagined Charles Bukowski falling in love with this area and finding some poetic prose to make it sound romantic in a gritty fall on your face drunk kind of way. Again almost every fifteen or twenty feet we were asked for some denomination of currency, or a cigarette or both. It was now getting on my nerves. The walk was up hill, as almost all walking in the city by the Bay is. Getting winded due to my tobacco intake was not something I was looking forward to on a daily basis. Finally we make it up to the top of the hill only to realize we have yet another hill to go. So I light up another ultra light and curse under my breath. One block without anyone asking me for something, two blocks, apparently the homeless stick to their street and don’t travel up hill. We made it to our destination, sweaty and winded, how better to make a first impression to a potential landlord. We view the property, which reminded me of New York City, a bit older but good bones and a nice view and the price seemed reasonable for the city. It is a contender.
I decide we should explore the neighborhood and get a flavor for the people, places and things surrounding this gem on the top of the hill. Well, two blocks to the east, heading downhill we were once again hit up for something by someone who made a doorway his home. The neighborhood was nice, well kept Edwardian homes but then there were not so well maintained hones, but that was what the city was. Nice, nice, not so nice and run down, not necessarily in that order but it was most definitely not Full House. While walking downhill we encountered a not so nice area, riddled with people who looked strung out on some drug or another, people smoking weed and women who looked like they were ready to turn a trick or two. There was a man and a woman arguing about loyalty and who has who’s back on the streets. I am still trying to find the allure of this city. We decide to high tail it back to the hotel and get accosted by some more change for a bus needing individuals. I needed a rest from all that I had taken in.
My wife grew up in California, by the way way every time I say California in my head I say it like the current Governor, and she was telling me stories from when she was a child making several trips to San Francisco and seeing all the beautiful views and tasting all the fresh foods. So for weeks my wife was telling me how wonderful the clam chowder is at Fisherman’s Wharf, she could not wait to get down there to have fresh clam chowder. It’s the best she ever had, ever. I was so anxious that I went online to look up the place that had best rated chowder, I found it and was so excited to try it, but more on that a bit later in the story.
San Francisco is cold, not bone chilling like Chicago, but it’s still cold. I would always suggest you bring a jacket, not one to go mountain climbing, but still one to keep you limbs warm. The views from the top of the hills are majestic. Rows and rows of rooftops in a frozen wave, with the backdrop of the Golden Gate Bridge, Sausalito and of course the mountains. I was truly amazed. Then the cable cars, the expensive mode of transportation to climb the steep sidewalks, five bucks each way. And I gladly paid it. It was a chilly morning and we decided to go to the wharf and eat at a San Francisco institution known for it’s Irish Coffee, The Buena Vista Cafe. According to legend, this was the first place in America that made a true Irish Coffee, I’m sure that’s been up for debate for a long time, but I’ll buy it a seven dollars a glass. As we climb up the track laden streets in a cable car, the only thing I could do was listen and observe. It was quite nostalgic and noisy. The breaks, the bells, the clanking of the wheels on the track and the wind in my ears. San Francisco is quite a retro city, cables cars from the turn of the previous century, street cars that look like old colorful diners on tracks, from almost the same era and none of them were named Desire. We descend upon Fisherman’s Wharf, hop off the old hill climber and head to the Buena Vista. We walk up a hill to walk down a hill and see our destination and guess what, it’s closed.
It was eight o’clock in the morning, what place that serves breakfast is closed at eight in the morning? Apparently this one. It was totally my fault, I did not check the hours of operation online. The painted sign on the door says they open at nine. Could I wait an hour to try America’s true Irish Coffee? You bet your get your drink on first thing in the morning ass I could. After feeling a bit defeated we decide to walk down to the Wharf and take in all the sites, which of course were all closed. In the not too far away distance, in the middle of the bay was the infamous Alcatraz. Just a big rock with a prison on it, which lead me to debate, could the escapees have made it to freedom. Now I’m no maritime expert but from the looks of it I think they could. We head on down the sidewalk and there was something missing, maybe it was a good thing that it was missing, but I could not smell the ocean. Not one faint mist of salt watery odor entered my nostrils, I could not figure it out. Where was the pungent ocean air?
To be Continued………
Brain Vomit 