Two bridges, a bay and a very steep hill

As we edge our way into the right hand lane that will take us across the San Francisco Bay Bridge, a 2-inch deluge of rain dumps on us. How uncharacteristic for California. Louisiana, perhaps, but the Bay Area, what's going on?

I pull up to the toll booth, hand $4 to a woman who is many miles away.

Miraculously, we find Market Street and pass among the steel and glass temples of the financial district.

We cross Grant and Stockton, promising to return to Chinatown for dinner, and begin our ascent up Sacramento, just one of many roller-coaster streets in the city. If you flattened out all the hills in San Francisco you could put Rhode Island inside.

One day we have occasion to drive across town, and come upon a pocket of huge Victorian homes, each completely different from the other. One might be lavender, the other dove, all with filigree woodwork, wrap around porches, dormers, bay windows, gables, an absolutely endless array of individuality. San Francisco highly prizes originality and with that comes the Japanese Tea Garden, Plant Arboretum, Fisherman's Wharf, cable cars, the list is endless.

At least once on each trip, I hike to the top of Nob Hill which is adorned by a quadrangle of lawn, rose garden, and an Italian fountain pinched from Rome. While I share John Muir's passion for the great sentinels of nature in the Sierra's, I think man has done a pretty good job of replicating beauty on Nob Hill.

On one trek, I sit at a table outside the Victoria Bakery sipping a cappuccino. Across the street Chinese women swarm into produce shops, pinching, and squeezing the pears and persimmons. Then on the corner of Columbus Avenue to my right, the Italian section begins. Sheltering sycamores hover above sidewalk tables. Menus tacked beside ristorante entrances proclaim the culinary treasures within.

What a life; white linen, crystal wine glasses, baskets of sourdough bread and platters of pasta right here, outdoors, as Neapolitan as Naples itself. Side by side; Beijing and Genoa.

One afternoon, I struggle up Clay Street to an alleyway that will cross over to Sacramento. I pass an open door and am greeted by a very tall man with wavy black hair and a huge smile. He's looking right at me and says, "Hi neighbor," as if we are old friends.

I have no idea who this grinning stranger is but maintain my cool and respond with "Hi, beautiful day, isn't it?" Here I am hobknobbing with a total stranger. Members of my own family aren't usually this glad to see me. Next day I chug up the same hill and there he is again and we chat some more. Come to find out, he's Dr. Andy, a chiropractor.

I know this because a sign in his storefront window says, 'The first treatment is free.' What is doubly interesting are the paintings and small statues in the store. Dr. Andy is both a chiropractor and artist. How cool. This guy cracks backs and paints pictures, and he doesn't have to choose between the two. Life in San Francisco is definitely "outside the box." Sadly, and I mean it, I don't take time to get to know Dr. Andy. I also miss out on walking across the Golden Gate Bridge and visiting the redwoods of Muir Woods just across the bay. Well, next trip.

It's Sunday morning and we drive to the Embarcadero and find the Ferry Building. Many years ago, ferries from Oakland crossed the bay by the hundreds but the Bay Bridge has made them redundant. Today this big cavernous structure is used as a gourmet food faire. There's a store that sell dozens of cheeses, another has many scrumptious kinds of bread and across the way a caviar bar where you can tease your palate with tasty sturgeon eggs and sip champagne (Ugh). Outside the terminal is the dock for the commuter ferry to Sausalito. This is a very cheap way to sightsee. At the center of the bay you can see both bridges, the skyline of San Francisco and the hills of Berkley, an incredible sight. Standing on the top deck of the ferry, with the wind rushing at me and the sun shining brightly, I sense the power of goodness in my life and feel very fortunate.

Ron Walker lives in Smith.