Canta mi corazon en San Francisco

I sing my heart out in San Francisco.  Did, do and ever will.   

We went under the Golden Gate in ’65 in a President liner and though Honolulu was our port of entry, we are attached to SFO.  Our occasional forays to the Bay Area keep the heartbeat at a constant and lively rate. 

 Not really for nostalgia but more to availability and access during SF’s tourist season (peaks July and August) that we parked our dagan at the Chelsea Motor Inn at the corner of Lombard (where it zigs and zags with eight hairpin switchbacks and the downward pitch of the self-proclaimed “crookedest street in the world” makes it the most driven-through street anywhere) and Fillmore (the 60’s rock-and-acid-roll).  From there we trekked through once-visited but no-longer-familiar places.

 We looked out to the Golden Gate Bridge and the magnificent sunrise and sunset views have the towers romantically fog-shrouded inviting either the colored pencils on a draw pad, or the tripod with the SLR for all kinds of artsy images and photos.  But mostly, the area harkens to the warm nooks of the castle rooms of the heart; the myriad offerings of gastronomic delights, and the sophisticated though blatantly hedonistic promotions in places like North Beach, Chinatown, Haight-Ashbury, Tenderloin, Castro, etc., with all kinds of seductive come-ons, beckon our senses.

We once dwelled on an apartment building at the corner of Geary and Stockton before the new elegant Neiman-Marcus served dainty sandwiches on the fourth floor to the relatively well-to-do.  It was home in the mid-60s to workers in both North Beach and the Tenderloin districts until Saks Fifth Ave. demolished the old structures.  Macy’s has since joined the corner and Union Square itself has become like its sister park on Park Ave. NYC, serving coffee and sandwiches to the walking and wandering throng. 

Alumni of my high school class gather as INHS60, and an active group in the Bay Area frequently gathers, especially when one of us from ‘overseas’ comes ashore.  A classmate and her Hamburg-born hubby hosted one such get-together in an elegantly decorated third floor dwelling in an area still dominated by Victorian houses updated to look the “Postcard Row” image of the homes around the seven hills of San Francisco.   

The soiree honored July and August birthday celebrants that included moi, and we feasted on duck and pasta, fresh green asparagus and snow peas, escargot and vegetable French salad, Sangria and fresh plump cherries, cake and Merlot (and other rich tasting viands I skipped for their high cholesterol contents).  The top floor of their three-storey townhouse is west of Twin Peaks on Sunset south of the Golden Gate Park. 

I am the runt in our HS class and I seem to draw the sisterly and brotherly instincts of my previous study mates who pepper us with questions on what we had been up to.  It turns out that I had been to more exotic places than most, and been able to write not only about events and describe ambience but also deal with the depth, height, and breadth of feelings and thoughts of them.   I’ve been designated as one of the class writers and storytellers. 

Our confidence in the uniqueness of every member of the human species was confirmed by this city on the Bay these last few days.  The reality that English is the discourse in the upper echelons of society is equaled by the polyglot at the street level, with Hispanics leading the herd, surprisingly followed by German and French, Putonghua and Filipino with their various dialects, Hindi, Urdu, Vietnamese, Arabic, Korean and Japanese.  The younger generation has made peace with English as the primary tongue of choice, and even famous lilly-white Stanford mall advertising uses a generic Asian female face that is not easily pegged down to one Asian nationality.  Ex-Dominican Matthew Fox battles original sin with original blessing, getting green is not just talked about but is being done, and transformative techies of every level and coloration abounds. 

The humanization of the city with a global flavor is not lost when dudes wear earrings with their business suits and dudettes sport butch haircuts and leather studs to the office, accepted and celebrated without apology.  The BART transport, at less than the cost of a taxi from Finasisu to Ada International, got me from Martinez on Oakland’s foothills directly to the SFO International airport in less than an hour; with the added services of the MUNI, and the touristy cable cars, one sees a diverse city on the move with grace and efficiency.

 That discord seethes underneath the surface of civility is to be expected from an urban setting rife with fear and suspicion.  Assassinated Moscone comes to mind.  But the face of politics is taking on a different hue.  The Board of Supervisors appointed Ed Lee of Sino heritage as interim mayor to serve the remaining term of newly elected former SF mayor Lt. Governor Gavin Newsom.  Lee immediately declared that he had no interest in retaining the office so all wannabees gave him their support.  It appears that Mayor Lee has done and continues to do a superb and popular job as the hizzoner of the city and a civic movement urged him to run for the office.  He declared his candidacy last week, and now he is being accused of “breaking a promise.”  Duh.  I would think that eminently qualifies him to politics!

 “Love” was in the air in San Francisco of our acquaintance of the 60s.  S/he still walks its streets and we swoon each time we come through.