Thursday, February 18, Phil's cousin left for Bangalore, India. We took Highway 1 along the coast north from Santa Cruz, trying to convince ourselves that the dense fog was sure to burn off by lunchtime. The rugged hills and lonely beaches had a mysterious appeal to me. What would it be like to spend time in one of the weather-beaten cabins overlooking the steel grey ocean?
After dropping Steve off at SFO, Phil, Peter (his brother here for a long weekend), and I headed up to "the city" as Steve advised us that locals call San Francisco. With the help of a Tomtom GPS, we limped through a few traffic jams and then past the Golden Gate Park and into the heart of the Presidio. Phil turned our trusty Honda Fit at just the moment to land us in the parking lot adjacent to the Golden Gate Bridge. The fog varied from dense to pea soup thick as we walked halfway across the bridge's nearly two mile span. The poor visibility frustrated me, but I was pleased to see that the pedestrian walk is wide enough to accommodate walkers and bikers heading in both directions.
We got back in the car and headed crosstown to North Beach, but hunger set in and a parking space appeared as if by magic on Union Street. We hurried into Crepes A Go Go, a tiny place with a funky ambience and great service. The coffee, served by a friendly young woman with a convincing French accent, was strong and the crepes were tender. I had nutella (hazelnut chocolate sauce) and bananas and the two gentlemen had heartier fillings followed by a crepe with butter and sugar. Before we left, Phil and Peter had a friendly chat with a young man double parked and blocking us in, but in no particular hurry to move his car. He was waiting for his ex-girlfriend to buy chocolates. Oh those inscrutable San Franciscans! We'll never know why the woman couldn't have found his bright red pickup if he backed up three or four feet.
We parked at one of the piers at the Embarcadero and walked up the overgrown gardens along the stairs climbing up Telegraph Hill. Phil and I are great fans of the film called The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill and have made this trek before in hopes of spotting the parrots and for the view from Coit Tower in Pioneer Park. The fog had let up a little. We could see Alcatraz Island, but the bridges were still elusive. We didn't pay to go to the top of the tower, but enjoyed the depression-era murals on the ground level. We descended into North Beach and then climbed Russian Hill, where the flock of wild parrots swirled by us with a flurry of swawks and glinting feathers. At the summit we looked in wonder at the cars perched head in on the steeply pitched residential when a man came roaring up the incline and then just as quickly retreated (in reverse) down the roller coaster steep slope. Note to self: don't drive on Russian Hill.
We had a little trouble finding the Cable Car Museum, a favorite of ours not only because it's free but also it has lots of fascinating information on the 1906 earthquake and how cable cars work including the huge power wheels that drive the few existing cable cars. Then we plunged into the frantic crowds shopping in Chinatown. Fish of every size and color flapped their fins in shallow tanks in one shop while next door shelves rose up the wall twelve feet or higher, full of see-through bins filled with exotic herbs and roots. As we struggled to make our way along the crowded sidewalks, vendors popped out of every door, extolling the quality of their wares in loud, insistent Chinese.
After the hubbub of Chinatown, the hushed hipness of the City Lights Books was a welcome relief. I love the hodge podge of shelves here, placed at odd angles so close together, and the wild assortment of fiction from around the world, but there's a sort of smug intellectualism that can only be rivalled by Harvard Square. Night had fallen by the time we left, so we searched North Beach for an Italian restaurant that matched our appetites and wallets. Calzone's Pizza Cucina fit the bill perfectly. The decor combined the traditional -- black and white tiles and shelves lined with pasta tins and olive oil bottles -- with cutting edge modern --triangular plates and exposed light bulbs hung over every table. We had no trouble finishing off an arugula salad with walnuts and cranberries and asparagus orzo.
The conversation turned to what a magical city San Francisco is. Try as I might, I cannot agree wholeheartedly. Despite the hills upon hills and the charmingly impractical citizens, San Francisco seems like a New York City wannabe -- not quite as culturally diverse, not quite as culturally aware, not quite as culturally rich. But as I massaged my aching feet on the car trip home, I had to admit that however lacking this city may be, it easily had me whupped up and down the block.
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