A Tourist Wanders San Francisco- Part Two: Kerouac-Cassidy Mornings

On the platform of the train is our reunion, but its quick lived; our train is leaving and we must jump on before we can shake hands, nod heads, and say, “what’s up”. We find seats and spread ourselves about seeing that the train is only lightly filled. I’m tired. We’re tired. After some brief small talk I lean my head back against the train window that gives me a clear view of tunnel darkness. My eyes are growing heavier with each stop, I can’t hear the conductor name station stops and I grow increasingly worried with each stop that we might miss our destination. But if I get lost in this city its alright by me, I’m already lost. My headphones are back on and I’m listening:

It’s always the same, you’re jumping someone else’s train.

Jonathan writes a poem about the cultured people of the city.

Powell Station… our stop. With each station stop (8 all together) it has become progressively more and more packed with people. Jonathan loaded down with bags has to push someone off the train so we can get by. The young hipster looks perturbed, I say thanks, and he smirks with understanding-“tourist.”

We walk out of the underground station up to the sound of trafficking cars, echoing motors, and honking horns bouncing off towering buildings; gray ominous clouds lurking overhead with faint drizzled rain pelting my p-coat. This is the San Francisco I imagined.

A block up is the Travel center, we purchase our day passes for the transit system (a good deal usually, if you want to explore the town, but with Jonathan who wants to roam the earth on foot it becomes a waste of money) and hop aboard the cable cars. They had their place in San Francisco history and were quite useful, but now they are little more than a tourist novelty. However, it goes right next to our hotel.

On the cable car, I miss my daughter. She still talks about our outing to the city and getting to ride the “trolley”. I told myself that when I came back to the city I would like to come without her, since it’s harder to experience all the delights of the place with a kid on your side. Now, that she’s home and I’m here, I miss her. I would gladly forsake city delights to see her thrilled eyes light up as we board, to hear her squeal and talk faster than this rickety old thing can move. It would be all the delight I need.

Our Hotel is on the edge of Chinatown. An old place called the Grant Plaza that looked like it used to be a one-time low-income pad for welfare recipients. A place filled with shore men, train runners, prostitutes and vagrants. It’s been remodeled of course. After we book the reservation we went online and read reviews: Rooms are small….this place smells, we couldn’t get the smell out of our clothes for days…Bedbugs!!!! For $66 a night in the heart of the city, for one night I was willing to stink. Besides I liked the idea of staying in an old run down hotel, I felt more authentic and less of a tourist.

Check-in wasn’t until two, but they had a locker available so we stuffed our belongings in and headed out. We walked back to the Cable Car up a sharp inclined hill, after a block it had me gasping for air like a hooked fish.

We walk through the first Cathedral in California- much smaller than imagined. When all the other buildings lay in shambles and decimated from the 1906 Earthquake the Cathedral remained standing alone. A Rock to lean on… Tales of Belouc (the European writer, philosopher, and walker) ensued.

We rode the car down to the Buena Vista. It was starting to dopwnpour, as we hung to slippery sliding poles off the sides of the cable car. At the Buena Vista we relaxed in warmth as we sipped Irish coffee (Coffee and Irish Cream liqueur). The Buena Vista was the first place to serve the drink in America.

Afterwards we strolled down Fisherman’s Wharf. This is the hub, the granddaddy of tourist traps! Ripley’s Believe it or Not, Barking sea lions, and corporate eateries fill the place. But, we are not strolling during tourist hours when the Wharf becomes alive with the vampire merchants of knick-knacks. Were walking while it’s still early morning when the population is sparse. If you look closely, I mean really squint your eyes almost closed and imagine your damnedest; you can see the San Francisco that became the thriving eastern town on western shores. Chinese store front owners are out getting ready for the morning, fisherman- the last of the real fisherman on the Wharf are preparing their boats, workers heading to small canning factories, and vagabonds walking about “ hey buddy, how about sparing some change for a Vietnam Vet.”

It’s a Cassidy, Kerouac morning.