I lived in San Francisco years ago, and though I'd only recently left a provincial life in Ohio, I was quick to adopt a cosmopolitan disdain for the flocks of tourists that jammed into the city. It was all too obvious because tourists wore wispy summer clothes in an ocean wind and fog micro-climate where winter clothes are appropriate nearly year around. The men, at least, had jackets but the women always looked close to hypothermia in their little white nylon sweaters. Being in a state of perpetual dampness eventually lost its romantic quality and I left the city to its pale natives, still dazzled newcomers, and to the steady succession of bone-chilled tourists.
My husband lived in San Francisco too, though with a different wife. And so, with a mutual love for the city, we periodically return as unabashed tourists, prepared for any adventure.
This time we are staying with our friend, Rob, outside the city and taking the train to San Francisco for the day. Rob considers himself a honorary San Francisco native as he lives within commuting distance, goes in on a regular basis, and knows the proper bus routes for getting around. We've landed on a glorious, sunny day with temperature in the high 70's. It does happen occasionally. The streets are filled to bursting with people, but natives have no special status today as everyone's dressed for the heat. I'm possibly the only person carrying a coat in my backpack because I'm so mistrustful of fair weather in San Francisco.
I get to set the agenda because I'm the most enthusiastic about being there; I want to walk through Chinatown up to North Beach. I'm reminded that friend Rob broke his ankle a while back, and is still not completely recovered. An intense moment of disappointment threatens my jubilant mood; I'm so eager to walk. Rob, however, not completely recovered, takes off speed walking and I realize we don't have a problem as Steve and I just try to keep up.
As an unabashed tourist, I have no compunctions about constantly taking photos. I'm immediately taken with the window display in a very upscale men's store; literally the tailor from Hell. Rob, honorary native, did not bring his camera, is not taking pictures and is way out ahead of me now.
In North Beach, Rob steers us to the quintessential San Francisco restaurant, The Stinking Rose. The perfect mix of funk, understated elegance and well-prepared food, it is frequented by celebrities, natives, and, of course, tourists. We all mix cheerfully together; it's the perfect dining experience.
We move on to revisit City Lights Bookstore and Vesuvio's Cafe. I'm in a parallel universe now; a twenty-something me hanging out here, and tourist me reliving it with two less enthusiastic companions along. Steve somewhat grudgingly takes the requisite tourist shot of me in front of Vesuvio's. I go inside alone to take the interior shot.
I'm remembering one of my first adventures when I was right off the bus from Ohio. My sister and I have apparently charmed the bartender at Vesuvio's and he asks us to meet him for a drink when he gets off. It's a disaster. We meet at Enrico's; the bartender is urbane, witty and sophisticated. I feel like the country mouse; conversation eludes me. He is not unkind or condescending but he realizes his miscalculation, and after a rather short time, he pays for a cab to take us home. Temporarily chagrined, but in no way discouraged from returning to Vesuvio's, I gradually acquired the confidence and attitude to converse with the cosmopolitan natives. I love Vesuvio's; I grew up there.
My next agenda item for the three of us is to take the bus to the Buena Vista Cafe and ride the cable car back downtown. I'm still in my parallel universe, just completely high on the city sights and the sunshine. The cafe is so popular, it is usually standing room only, and if you do sit, you share a table with strangers. After drinking Irish coffee, no one is a stranger anyway. Rob wants ice with his Irish coffee, which is like asking for non-alcoholic wine in a Paris restaurant, but the waitress is unfazed and accommodating. Having made whatever point he was trying to make, Rob never touches the ice. I get Steve to take another cheesy tourist picture of me.
Cable car rides are very civilized now; you can no longer jump on anywhere along the route, but must queue up in long lines at the turnaround points. The wait time is ridiculous but the day is warm and windless, and I'm still feeling exuberant. When our turn comes, I make sure I'm standing on the outside running board which is the only place to really experience the ride. We've done the up hill and are all anticipating the down hill when the entire system comes to a halt. An Occupy San Francisco protest march has closed off strategic streets for buses and cable cars; we're in gridlock and have to walk. Huge crowds of people are caught up in this inconvenience, but no one seems angry or hostile. It's just another unexpected experience, it seems.
I would love to walk down and join the protest march, but Steve and Rob are clearly not up for it. We have to walk quite a distance to find a bus that is not ensnared in traffic and will take us to the train station. Our timing is fortunate and our train is waiting, ready to go.
My husband lived in San Francisco too, though with a different wife. And so, with a mutual love for the city, we periodically return as unabashed tourists, prepared for any adventure.
This time we are staying with our friend, Rob, outside the city and taking the train to San Francisco for the day. Rob considers himself a honorary San Francisco native as he lives within commuting distance, goes in on a regular basis, and knows the proper bus routes for getting around. We've landed on a glorious, sunny day with temperature in the high 70's. It does happen occasionally. The streets are filled to bursting with people, but natives have no special status today as everyone's dressed for the heat. I'm possibly the only person carrying a coat in my backpack because I'm so mistrustful of fair weather in San Francisco.
I get to set the agenda because I'm the most enthusiastic about being there; I want to walk through Chinatown up to North Beach. I'm reminded that friend Rob broke his ankle a while back, and is still not completely recovered. An intense moment of disappointment threatens my jubilant mood; I'm so eager to walk. Rob, however, not completely recovered, takes off speed walking and I realize we don't have a problem as Steve and I just try to keep up.
As an unabashed tourist, I have no compunctions about constantly taking photos. I'm immediately taken with the window display in a very upscale men's store; literally the tailor from Hell. Rob, honorary native, did not bring his camera, is not taking pictures and is way out ahead of me now.
 |
| The Tailor from Hell |
In North Beach, Rob steers us to the quintessential San Francisco restaurant, The Stinking Rose. The perfect mix of funk, understated elegance and well-prepared food, it is frequented by celebrities, natives, and, of course, tourists. We all mix cheerfully together; it's the perfect dining experience.
We move on to revisit City Lights Bookstore and Vesuvio's Cafe. I'm in a parallel universe now; a twenty-something me hanging out here, and tourist me reliving it with two less enthusiastic companions along. Steve somewhat grudgingly takes the requisite tourist shot of me in front of Vesuvio's. I go inside alone to take the interior shot.
 |
| Cheesy Tourist Shot |
 |
| Interior shot of Vesuvio's Cafe |
I'm remembering one of my first adventures when I was right off the bus from Ohio. My sister and I have apparently charmed the bartender at Vesuvio's and he asks us to meet him for a drink when he gets off. It's a disaster. We meet at Enrico's; the bartender is urbane, witty and sophisticated. I feel like the country mouse; conversation eludes me. He is not unkind or condescending but he realizes his miscalculation, and after a rather short time, he pays for a cab to take us home. Temporarily chagrined, but in no way discouraged from returning to Vesuvio's, I gradually acquired the confidence and attitude to converse with the cosmopolitan natives. I love Vesuvio's; I grew up there.
My next agenda item for the three of us is to take the bus to the Buena Vista Cafe and ride the cable car back downtown. I'm still in my parallel universe, just completely high on the city sights and the sunshine. The cafe is so popular, it is usually standing room only, and if you do sit, you share a table with strangers. After drinking Irish coffee, no one is a stranger anyway. Rob wants ice with his Irish coffee, which is like asking for non-alcoholic wine in a Paris restaurant, but the waitress is unfazed and accommodating. Having made whatever point he was trying to make, Rob never touches the ice. I get Steve to take another cheesy tourist picture of me.
 |
| Irish Coffee at the Buena Vista Cafe |
Cable car rides are very civilized now; you can no longer jump on anywhere along the route, but must queue up in long lines at the turnaround points. The wait time is ridiculous but the day is warm and windless, and I'm still feeling exuberant. When our turn comes, I make sure I'm standing on the outside running board which is the only place to really experience the ride. We've done the up hill and are all anticipating the down hill when the entire system comes to a halt. An Occupy San Francisco protest march has closed off strategic streets for buses and cable cars; we're in gridlock and have to walk. Huge crowds of people are caught up in this inconvenience, but no one seems angry or hostile. It's just another unexpected experience, it seems.
I would love to walk down and join the protest march, but Steve and Rob are clearly not up for it. We have to walk quite a distance to find a bus that is not ensnared in traffic and will take us to the train station. Our timing is fortunate and our train is waiting, ready to go.
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| The Tourists |
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