Since we haven't yet recovered you from the top of Mount Adams (if you're still there) I've decided its time to return to your roots. I've gone off in search of your creators.
The search begins in a city I have known more than 65 years -- but not well. My oldest recollection of San Francisco seems to be right at the location in the photo above. I think it was there, when I was a toddler, that I looked up at two big men who were doing what has been done here countless times--push the cable car to rotate the platform on which it sits. This realigns the tracks from the arrival position to the position that aligns it for the climb back up Powell Street Hill.
One of the men was my father, and the other was Uncle Chico, the Portuguese gentleman who married my mother's youngest sister.
I remember that the day was bright -- is was probably summer. And the street seemed empty. In those days there weren't the crowds, and the passengers were expected help push the car around.
Now there's a long line to climb aboard at $7 a pop. The cars are so crowded from the get-go that by the time they reach Bush street, where the Time Share is, there's no more room to climb aboard. After three fully-loaded cars went by, I had to walk down the hill a couple blocks on Saturday to catch a car that still had room for me so I could go to Fisherman's Wharf. I used my Muni pass-- $40 for 7 days of city transportation. Ride the cable car as much as I like.
San Francisco brings up memories of Carl Sandburg's poem, "Chicago." It is vibrant and alive. Perhaps it is a little wicked, which is what the sign above would have suggested until society became more accommodating.
The City has oppulence and sometimes useless wealth, such as the kitch statues of three monkeys on a bench (below), too many of which have been made, and whose novelty hasn't been sufficient enough for buyers to snap them all up. Many appear to remain storefront art, secured from theft by the fact of their garish tastelessness.
Contrasted against this was another form of street art -- the exposed buttocks of a man struggling up the steps Sunday morning from the Bay Area Rapit Transit (BART) station at Powell and Market. He was too close to the ragged edge to be ashamed of the fact that his pants were falling down and he wore no underwear. As I trudged up Powell following my photo shoot another homeless man preceeded me, talking to himself and then singing aloud, "I'm Popey the sailor man, I eat from the garbage can..." Hanging from his belt was a piece of aluminum tubing, which looked like something he might have use for when night comes.
San Francisco is a city of mysteries. For example, while it awaits the awakening of the San Andreas fault, it accommodates buildings that anticipate the moment when portions of them will tumble fourteen stories onto pedestrians below:
And modern as it is, apartment dwellers apparently haven'g been blessed by the convenience of cable:
In a few days, Wilson, I will take the BART to Berkeley, where I will meet Emily Hopcian, one of the One World Play Project staffers who has supported our efforts to raise One World Futbols and distribute them. I appreciate the support Emily and the staff have extended to our campaign.I thought maybe you would like to know more about your roots. News about that in a few days.
In the meantime, however, there's a city to explore -- again. There's Boudine sourdough bread to buy, and the Embarcadero to walk. There's Coit Tower to climb and a World War II Submarine and a "liberty ship" to walk through. And The Bridge. Naturally, The Bridge.
Don't forget the sights and smells of Chinatown, which starts two blocks from the Time Share. We will be doing something special in Chinatown, and that's all I'm going to say for now.
On Friday, when I got in, I walked through Chinatown to a restaurant listed as one of the top three on a Trip Advisor notice: Molinari, which actually is an Italian Deli. I only recently learned about the high ranking for my favorite Deli, which is a short distance from the time share. The time share, by the way is converted from an old Hotel bracketed by the Powell Street Cable Car and the Chinatown gate (below).
At Molinari I purchased a sandwich, some aged Jack Cheese and 12-month Spanish Manchego along with a quarter poud of kalamata olives. While I waited, the two meat cutters chatted in rich Italian while the lady next to me asked for the rosmaria turkey. I've gonna try that--in a couple of days.
Love,
Robert
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