Golden City on the Bay (part 2)
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They were flopped out on pontoons like decadent Romans after the feast. They would slide into the water, then clamber laboriously back up after a bout of exaggerated, frenzied yelping as yet another tour boat set out for Alcatraz.
We travelled there on “Cincinnati Bumble Bee,” a tram car on the F Line painted in happy apian colours, yellow with green stripes.
These trams – which take the level route around the city - were rescued from other cities as their systems closed. On the way we meet Chicago, Boston and St Louis. It is as if London Transport ran a full service using all the preserved trams of Britain down Oxford Street - we were on Market St, one of the main commercial hubs of N America.
“Ok, folks, let’s gooooo” hollered our cheerful driver, ringing his bell with a 4th July flourish. Why should the crews on the cable cars (which take high route) have all the fun?
We found it in hotel lobbies, restaurants and stores - that easy, genial San Francisco style. It’s as if their ancestors used up any spare strife battling their way here to this idyllic spot over such vast distances. Everybody is done with fighting. Even in prohibiting mode, the locals lighten up, as in one notice we spotted. Where other cities’ stores might warn “No tramps”, this one preferred “No gnarly dudes.”
Some city icons should not be missed. We took the one hour boat trip round the Bay. It contains the “wow factor” that only Sydney can match among harbour trips of the world, when you pass under the Golden Gate Bridge. It was eerily splendid seen from below, mist swirling around the girders. (Until navigation becomes foolproof, it will always be painted orange, to be conspicuous to shipping, and belying the name.)
We had hired a car, our only mistake. Cars are for LA; in this town their place is waiting patiently at red lights. It cost us as much to park it as to drive it. My advice is take the BART train from the airport for $4 – when you are likely to be tired anyway – then ride public transport and hire only for trips out of town. (California is vast, but no need to go far: we toured the Napa Valley, a 90 minute drive away, staying in a lodge next to a vineyard.)
So riding the 30 trolley bus through Chinatown was simply the best way to take our first taste of this few blocks of undiluted Orient, pavements bustling like Hong Kong, mountains of fresh produce.
And things happen on public transport. On the 71 bus from The Haight, a man sat down and began to play his version of the three card trick on a newspaper, hiding a bead under one of three bottle tops. He invited bets. Tourist caution prevailed on our part; then, as if this was what you did on a quiet bus in SF, one lady wagered $1. After a few games, the man was winning. Loser handed over her dues. “Heck, lady, I won’t take that. I have money. I won $500 in Vegas last week.”
My travelling expert declared the Downtown shopping better than New York’s. She liked the big stores, all grouped together around Union Square and Market: a brighter Macy’s than the Big Apple’s; the buzzing five floor Nordstrom shopping centre; Nieman Marcus and Sacks, with a Bloomingdales to come. There’s the original Gap, a massive Levi’s and The Apple Store, where I was free to try out the iPod of my choice.
“Wasn’t that amazing?” asked a total stranger at the next table after we finished breakfast in the Pinecrest on Geary, which claims to be the best all day diner in town. Just another San Francisco enthusiast.
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