San Francisco Insights

Visiting San Francisco has always brought up comparisons in my mind with Los Angeles, where I grew up. It felt richer in history, which, of course, it is. Every time I visited SF, I detected a vibe that was different from my hometown: There seemed to be a heartbeat in the Fog City missing in Los Angeles with its perennial sunshine, surfers, celebrities, the Hollywood sign.   

I remember many years ago, 1968—it was the summer after the Summer of Love in the Frisco area of Haight-Ashbury. The streets were still filled with Hippies on drugs and colorful clothes and still believing they could change the world. I was in awe with their openness, their happiness, their sense of freedom because I was so incredibly different—married, working for the City of Los Angeles, paying a mortgage, ready to vote for Tricky Dick in the ’68 election. I was the same age as most of them, yet so far apart in my thinking.

Another time in SF during June 1989, I brought my sons with me. It was the beginning of their summer vacation and I wanted them to see the beautiful city. In the hotel room on the morning of June 5, we mistakenly turned on the TV and watched as the Chinese government beat down hundreds of students who had occupied Tiananmen Square calling for democracy. During that protest, that incredible photo was taken of the man standing in front of the armored tanks.

The mood of that attack stayed with me, coloring the visit of the usual SF landmarks—the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, Fisherman’s Wharf. At that time, I was a returning college student, studying political science with an incredible professor from China, Dr. Edward Tseng. Later when I asked him what he thought about the failed protest, he flatly said China would never become a democracy. He knew that from experience, having fought the Chinese Communists under Mao Zedong and escaping with his life to Taiwan as a follower of Chiang Kai-shek.

My most recent trip to SF was last October with my husband. We were looking forward to delicious seafood, walking on the wharf, taking in the smell of the bay, and getting into the vibe of that beautiful old city.

On the plane trip over, I sat on the aisle across from my husband. Next to me, in the middle seat was a man who said he was born on Guam. We got to chatting and I soon learned he was a born-again Christian. Whenever I brought up a subject he didn’t like, he would say, “Leave it to God.” I mistakenly mentioned SF was a sanctuary city, believing as a faithful Christian he would be grateful for the city’s protection of immigrants by limiting information to federal authorities. Instead, he said it was “the Devil’s work,” adding that he disliked President Biden, and everything he did as president was “bad.”

When we landed—not willing to try Uber—we found a taxi to take us into the heart of the city to the Marriott Union Square. It was an illuminating ride through the Tenderloin District where we saw the sidewalks filled with ragged homeless people and trash everywhere. Beginning to feel uncomfortable with the scenery around us, we hoped our hotel wasn’t located in that area.

The scenery soon changed when the cabbie turned into another area—businesses, good-looking apartments, the sidewalks filled with tourists and residents. When the driver drove into the hotel’s valet parking, he began fumbling with the mileage meter, tapping it, saying it wasn’t working. He handed over a piece of paper with $60 scribbled on it. Looking at one another, surprised by how expensive it was, my husband shrugged his shoulders and gave the cabbie $80.

Hotel employees took our two bags and we went into the lobby, which was exquisite. The front desk clerk took a look at our reservation and shook his head, “This is the JW Marriott,” he said in a voice that made me think of the butler in Downton Abbey. “You’re at the wrong hotel. The Marriott Union Square is two blocks down the hill.”

By the time we walked back to the valet area of the JW Marriot Hotel, our cabbie had fled with his $80. Two disgruntled hotel employees retrieved our luggage, and then we hiked down the steep hill to the Marriott Union Square Hotel. When we walked into the pared-down lobby, we realized this indeed was a hotel in our price range—not bad, but definitely not the JW Marriott.

It was noon, and the desk clerk was kind enough to give us a room on the 17^th floor despite check-in at 4 p.m. The room was spacious, clean, and had a glorious view of the Bay of San Francisco. The bed looked inviting—we had gotten up at 4 a.m. to drive two hours to Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport from our home in northern Arizona—but we were hungry.

Three steep blocks downhill to Union Square, we saw a Cheesecake Factory sign on the façade of Macy’s Department Store. This one-block plaza and surrounding area is historically home to one of the largest collections of department stores, upscale boutiques, gift shops, art galleries, and beauty salons in the U.S., making Union Square a major tourist destination and a well-known gathering place in downtown SF.

At the edge of Union Square, facing Macy’s were a gaggle of sightseeing tourist buses, the second floor of the bus open to the sky. Intrigued, we asked where they went and how much they cost. It seemed a reasonable way to get around the city and see the sights. Tomorrow, that’s what we would do.

The restaurant was crowded and we had to wait for a table, but we were finally seated in a lovely red leather banquette facing an endless row of booths where we could see our waitress hustling to serve her customers. She was lovely with dark hair, eyes, a lithe figure, and we heard a light accent when she asked for our order.  

The mushroom burger with French fries was delicious, and when our waitress came to collect our dishes and place the check on the table, we asked Fatma where she was from.

Her smile was wide and her eyes had a wonderful lilt to them.

“I’m from Tunisia, but this is my home,” she said. “I love America!”

Our reaction to her visible love of America was to seek more information. She said she has lived in SF seven years.

“I’ve only three years to go and I can become a U.S. citizen!” Then she added proudly, “I have a baby girl, she was born in America.”

My husband and I were taken with this lovely woman whose love for our country was like a breath of fresh air. We complimented her, saying how nice she looked.

She laughed. “No one in Tunisia tells you that you look nice.”

Then she paused. “People here don’t appreciate what they have.”

To be continued…