"I want you to adore San Francisco, as much as I do so make a list of things you want to do," Georgia tells me.
Orllyene, my wife, and I have been invited to be guests of Georgia and Richard Fulstone at their newly acquired apartment in San Francisco. Georgia is a whirling dervish of energy and Richard is deceivingly quiet but has a mind as sharp as a needle. Like so many folks in Smith Valley, their lives are as full as 10 pounds of sugar in a 5-pound bag.
The first time I walk into the little 12th floor apartment, I am flabbergasted. The apartment itself is simple, two bedrooms, two baths, "minimalist decor" but oh boy what a view. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. In the distance was the bay, a long container ship about to slip under the Bay Bridge, office buildings of the Financial District off to the right and just over the rail, straight beneath my feet, China Town, Chinese and U.S. flags fluttering in the breeze. Clothes hanging from windows drying, basketball courts on the roofs, just the way they do things in the city.
As soon as we dump our luggage in our bedroom, we're down the elevator and out the door. Thomas the doorman nods. Thomas found a place for me to park my 18-foot, 4-inch Lincoln in the garage. A miracle.
Our building is notched into the side of Nob Hill and from the looks of it we have some hikin' to do as we peek around the corner. Orllyene and I link arms and tag along behind our benefactors and climb the steep hill.
Sacramento is a narrow street, none the less a rotund electric bus squeezes between the parked cars and whirrs quietly up the hill. At the corner of Powell, a cable car makes a stop, people leap on, grab a pole and with a cacophony of clanging bells the cable car lurches away.
Up and up we go. These are not "bunny hill" slopes. If you were to drop a bowling ball, you'd never see it again. Immediately curious about living in S.F., I ask Richard what it's like to live there. "Best thing is to find yourself a place with a garage and a doorman," he says. We pass a parking lot garage; Parking: $45 a day. I took a picture, if you'd like proof.
Nob Hill is the pinnacle of historical elegance. A hundred years ago the Mark Hopkins and Fairmont Hotel set the standard which survives today. Surrounding these dowagers are homes that exude an aura of lasting elegance. Chandeliers can be seen in high ceilinged mansions. Curved windows and frilly Victorian cornices are such a contrast to today's simpler more functional architecture. Screaming for attention is a squat Parisian glass arboretum squeezed between a dove grey polished marble townhouse and a multi-story apartment building.
Georgia suggests a stroll through the lobby of the Fairmont. Antique mirrors in elaborate gilded frames, orchids on the front desk counter, thick 20-foot tall columns, snow white marble floors transport us back in time. I'm a sucker for upscale elegance and am in my element. Plenty is never enough. Afternoon tea is being served in the main dining room. A fountain of pastries centers each table. Denny's seems a long way away.
Out the front door of the Fairmont is a block square park maintained by the residents at the top of Nob Hill. In the center is a "Three Coins in the Fountain" style water display(immaculately maintained) amid well pruned rose bushes.
Our return downhill is slow and plodding. Soon as I arrive, I'm out on the balcony again. A chill wind whistles in off the sea. Our one balmy day is over (we have four weather patterns in four days but amazingly no fog). Later that night, I gaze at the skyline. All the workers are gone, yet the lights remain on. Each building is a stack of lights, stretching dizzily higher and higher. The lights freeze the scene, nothing moves, the streets appear empty yet if the city is sleeping, who's making all the noise? I listen; straining trucks, roll down doors, the clatter of cable cars, a howling siren, ghostly sounds of unseen night perpetrators.
Neighborhoods define San Francisco, Nob Hill, Fisherman's Wharf, the Embarcadero, the Marina, Presidio Sea, Little Italy, the Mission District, Telegraph Hill and China Town. San Francisco is a mixture of ethnically compatible neighborhoods all huddling together. Traditions, holidays, languages differ yet it's America's best effort at cultural cross pollination. This isn't tourism, it's a crash course in anthropology.
My favorite place is China Town. I saunter along Stockton Street, up one side and down the other, bright sun and drippy rain. Forget Grant Street. Stockton is where the Chinese shop, haggle, and hustle from shop to shop. Incense wafting out of jade emporiums, medicinal herb shops, very little English is spoken. The sidewalk is a churning mass of humanity, spilling onto the street. Curbside displays, burgeoning with dried shrimp & oysters, indescribable green vegetables, piles of oranges, mangos, bananas, each item picked at, squeezed, probed before it goes into the shopping bag. Glistening ducks dangle next to live frogs and turtles.
Dum sum and clay pot cooking are featured at hole-in-the-wall eateries or middle class dining rooms. Eleven brands of firecrackers, if you're interested. My favorite sign: "Golden Mountain Sagely Monastery." I would love to know what that means.
I hint at a ride on the commuter ferry to Sausalito. "I've never done that, how about it Richard?" Georgia asks and he agrees, the lunatics are in charge of the asylum.
Vintage trolley cars rumble along the Embarcadero which is now a front for organic produce, perfumed soaps, gourmet cheese shops and coffee cafes. The traffic is horrendous and we have 10 minutes to find the ticket booth and get on board.
"You go get the tickets and I'll find a place to park," Georgia commands, and we flee. Throngs of sightseers have turned the dock into a sea of shoppers. Richard and I jog ahead, Orllyene positions herself on the corner to intercept Georgia. It works. I stand on a bench and wave frantically and moments later we are on board as the tawdry craft belches diesel smoke and plows its way into the bay. Both the Golden Gate and Bay Bridge vie for attention. The city reclines enticingly from the waterfront to the top of the several hills. What a remarkably beautiful and stimulating city. A swarm of sailboats greets is as we cruise into the Sausalito marina.
My vow to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge is a bust. The day is drizzly, the bay the color of pea soup. Other tragedies-we miss tea time at the Japanese Tea Garden, visiting Muir Woods, and riding all three cable car lines. We did have a glorious dinner at tiny "Utopia" cafe, lobster at Alioto's and twice I hung out at "Victoria's" bakery on Columbus swilling coffee and people watching-heaven
When I returned home, I read a verse in the Bible "A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid." (Matthew 5:14) Timeless.
n Ron Walker is a Smith Valley resident.
