More San Francisco Musings

Since breakfast at the hotel seemed exorbitant, we walked across the street to Lorie’s Diner—a retro-type restaurant with the hood of a 1950s car sticking out of one of the walls. The café sported a long counter, waiters and waitresses dressed in garb like the 50’s, each wearing a red soda jerk paper-pointed hat and white clothing.

Surprise, surprise. If the hotel breakfast seemed expensive ($26), Lorie’s wasn’t much better. Two eggs, sausage, hash browns, and an English muffin was $19, not including coffee. We opted for a toasted bagel, cream cheese and coffee, which was about $10. The waitress could have been a character actress in the TV show Alice, with the gum-chewing, dark hair, New York accent. It was a kick just watching her as she navigated her way with customers and dishes full of food.

We wandered down to Union Square and bought a two-day ticket for each of us—$69 apiece. While we waited for Big Bus San Francisco, we chatted with the Asian lady who sold the tickets. Since it was but a few weeks from the national election, we talked economics, a topic on everyone’s mind.

I commented on the price of breakfast at Lorie’s and she nodded acquiesce. “Everything is so expensive,” she said as she held out tickets to prospective tour bus passengers. “My son and I live in a tiny apartment—we are always on top of one another, it’s so small. It’s $1,300 a month!”

The hop-on hop-off bus rumbled up and another man checked our tickets as we stepped inside, grabbed earphones to plug into the pre-recorded commentary, and got a seat on the top deck. It seemed warm enough with the sun out in that glorious October morning and the view of the skyline was uninterrupted.

Across the aisle from us sat an Indian couple, the woman dressed in an elegant blue sari. As the bus rolled along to its various stops, she would stand and take selfies against the backdrop of wherever the bus had stopped. Periodically, she would walk up to the front of the deck and talk to a young woman I guessed to be her daughter. While they were talking, the daughter stood up, blithely took off her t-shirt—showing her bra—and put on a beautiful sequined blouse, while the mother continued to take selfies of herself.

The ride took 2 ½ hours—sixteen different stops from Union Square to the Civic Center, Haight-Ashbury, Golden Gate Park, the Golden Gate Bridge, and several wharfs, but it wasn’t long before we managed to make our way downstairs where it was warmer; the cold breeze on top was uncomfortable.

Downstairs, sitting across the aisle from us was a couple from Great Britain. When the bus drove through the Tenderloin District, we got into a conversation about American homelessness. The heavyset man with soft eyes was anxious to talk to us, an American couple who seemed open to his musings.

Referring to the people who clogged the sidewalk with their ragged clothes and unwashed hair, he said, “I don’t have an answer for this,” he said, shaking his head. We asked him about Brexit, Great Britain’s exit from the European Union. “I think Brexit will work out—other countries (in Europe) are tired of someone telling them what to do.”

We talked about the upcoming presidential election: “I believe,” he said with great conviction, “America will have a woman president.”

On this day’s ride on the hop-on hop-off bus, we got off at Pier 64, hoping to get a good cup of coffee as we wandered. There were lots of shops, restaurants and loads of people drifting among the various offerings on the pier. A shop that smelled of freshly baked pastries and brewed coffee looked inviting, so we bought coffee and scones and found an open seat on a bench in the middle of the walk way. A band was playing not far from where we sat, so we enjoyed the rock n’ roll music and tasty treat while watching the growing crowd of tourists.

After a while, we walked to the end if the long pier, gazed into shops filled with touristy glitz and gaudiness, then walked back to the area where we had sat before. A shop across the way from the bakery was selling clam chowder swimming in freshly-baked sourdough bread. We couldn’t resist, and then as we chowed-down on the delicious fare, we heard it…a loud rumble.

Looking up into the blue yonder, there they were—the U.S. Navy Blue Angels, sleek and fast and causing the crowd to “oh and ah” as they weaved their way through the sky with various formations. The show, which lasted several hours had everyone craning their necks.

When we got back to our room, being on the 17^th floor gave us an unparalleled view of the military antics, a wonderful daily show during San Francisco’s Fleet Week—a celebration of the troops, and a mission of good will between the military and civilians where each is invited into the other’s world for a week, with tours of ships and military demonstrations on one side, and a city’s culture on the other.

That evening, after scouting restaurants on Google Maps, we settled on a small Italian restaurant a block up the hill from our hotel. After a bit of a wait, we were taken by the owner/cook into a side room to a small table facing the sidewalk. Next to us—about a foot away—was a man who looked preoccupied with his dinner. He didn’t look over when we apologized after moving chairs to get into the small space.

After we ordered, the owner/cook came back, pulled up a chair from another table and spoke to the man next to us. They talked quietly to one another and then the owner/cook looked over at us and smiled.

“This is the man who opened this restaurant forty years ago,” he said sheepishly, as if he felt the need to let us in on their conversation. The other man piped up, “Yeah, I sold it to this guy who worked for me for twenty of those years.”

We asked how the restaurant was doing. The owner/cook nodded his head in a way that looked like he was trying to find the right words. “Covid nearly ruined us. This is the first Fall that we’ve seen a comeback of tourists.”

And then he added, complaining that the neighborhood was not the same as before the pandemic. “There’s no community. Big companies are buying out the small apartments. They don’t care about the neighborhood.”

***

The next day, a Friday, we decided to eat at McDonald’s which was down a block from our hotel and across the street. The fast-food restaurant had a line of people waiting to order and seats were at a premium. I saw an empty small table and chairs sitting against the wall, so I grabbed a seat while my husband stood in line. The restaurant seemed darker than the usual McDonald’s restaurants, but perhaps it was because the only natural light was from the street while the actual building was long and narrow with dim inside lighting; I had a vague feeling of uncleanliness.

The clientele was also different than Lori’s Diner. Lots of mothers with children in strollers, working men in overalls, and people obviously living on the streets of San Francisco grabbing a cheap meal. (Geez, wasn’t Streets of San Francisco a good TV series many years ago with a young Michael Douglas and Karl Malden?)

As we ate our sausage and egg McMuffins, we watched a man in filthy clothes walk along the line of tables situated across the restaurant from us. Although we could not hear his conversation because of the talkative crowd, we could see him stopping at several of the tables. Some people would shake their head while others handed him something—my guess was a hash brown or part of an McMuffin. Fairly soon, a McDonald’s employee, whose job was to keep an eye on people wandering about the restaurant without ordering food, said something to the beggar and ushered him out the door, although he was still loitering on the sidewalk—perhaps hoping to get back in—when we headed for the hop-on-hop off bus.

We didn’t return to McDonald’s during the rest of our stay in SF; Lorie’s Diner, while expensive, was sparkling clean and the staff extra courteous. Besides, there was a dark vibe at McDonald’s that we didn’t want to experience again.

During our bus rides, which we took every day because it seemed like the least expensive way to get around the city, we got off at Golden Gate Park and visited the California Academy of Sciences where there was a glorious reproduction of a tropical rain forest. Another day we visited the Palace of Fine Arts with its Greco-Roman grandeur and stunning views of the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s easily San Francisco’s most iconic venue, originally built for the 1915 Panama-Pacific Exposition—a showcase for the newly opened Panama Canal. Walking around the lake that surrounds the majestic buildings gives such a feeling of serenity!

Another stop was the Botanical Garden in Golden Gate Park where Canada geese lounged about on the sumptuous lawns, paying little attention to those of us who walked nearby. The garden was quiet, fragrant and hosted redwood trees.

And, of course, there was the crossing of the Golden Gate Bridge every day on our bus ride. The thrill of that magnificent bridge never seemed to waiver as we crossed the bay, looking at the sail boats, various islands and ominous Alcatraz prison. The bridge is majestic in all its beauty; no photograph can compare to seeing it in person, its iconic red color standing tall against a bright blue sky. But it’s also breathtaking to see a bit of cloud hovering over the bridge, or the top of the red cables and towers lost in fog.

As wonderful as it was to visit those sights, my memory of that trip last October centers around the people we met. One day when we were waiting in line to board the bus, we got into a conversation with a Black man working for the bus company, selling tickets on the sidewalk of Union Square. Dressed in clean clothes, although the sleeves of his shirt showed areas of wear, he said he was mad at the city “for all those illegal migrants. They give them $20,000 apiece—those who have kids.”

My husband asked him where he got his information. “I hear truth on YouTube, not on the news,” he said.

One evening, we decided to have dinner at the Last Drop Bar—a cozy neighborhood bar up the hill from our hotel. It was filled to the brim with sailors from Fleet Week. My husband got into a conversation with two sailors at the bar. They were First-Class Petty Officers. (A First-Class Petty Officer (PO1) is a senior non-commissioned officer in the United States Navy and Coast Guard. They are responsible for leading and mentoring junior sailors, and performing specialize duties.) Joe, who is retired from the U.S. Air Force, enjoyed his talk with the two officers so much that he bought them a round of drinks.

On the day before we flew home, we splurged at Lori’s Diner. I had blueberry pancakes and sausage and Joe finally ordered the $26 egg-sausage-hash-browns-English muffin breakfast. After we ordered, the waitress placed the check on the table. A bit later, one of the wait staff who seemed to be a manager, walked by, took a look at our table with no food, but the check laying in plain sight and stopped. He quickly picked up the check saying, “This is not how we do business.”

Later that morning, we walked several blocks to Chinatown, an enclave in itself. It’s 24 blocks or about half a mile long and a quarter mile wide with about 70,000 people. The street was filled with restaurants and shops, but one looked particularly enticing. It had various kinds of furniture and antiques, so we walked in. Inside was a beautifully-carved chess set, tables with inlaid marble, China sets, crystal, and all kinds of lovely furniture.

A stocky man with dark hair approached me as I cooed over the delicate chess set. He began by telling me that he was the store manager and had just returned to San Francisco after being in Phoenix at the Barrett-Jackson classic car show/auction where his store had a booth.

“I didn’t make any sales,” he sighed.

He was from Guatemala and we had a lovely conversation about his beautiful country that lasted quite a while. (Joe and I had recently returned from a visit to Guatemala City.) As we were beginning to leave, he picked up a small enameled bell with exquisite markings on it. “For you,” he said, thanking me for my comments about his country.

We walked further into Chinatown, turned down a side street looking for a Chinese restaurant. We were deeper into the area with few Caucasian tourists, so it seemed likely we would find an authentic eatery. While walking, we saw an elderly Chinese lady tucked into an alcove between two buildings. She was sitting between a stack of plastic bags and other trash, which seemed to give her some kind of warmth. She looked like she might have been in her 80s, just staring out of her filthy enclave with sunken eyes. My heart sank as I looked at her hopelessness.

With a sigh, we walked on, finally coming to a restaurant called the Great Eastern Restaurant. When we went inside, we could see it was filled with table after table of Chinese people—no tourists in sight. Directed to a table amid the din of spoken Chinese, we seemed to be the object of conversation at the nearby tables—the only Caucasians.

We ordered dim sum, barbeque ribs, fried rice and sweet and sour pork. A couple sitting at a table across from us, nodding and smiling, picked up their chopsticks, encouraging us to use them, but since our chopstick technique was rusty, we opted for regular utensils. They shook their heads and chuckled at our lack of proper etiquette.

The meal was delicious, but far too much food. Our waiter packed what was left into a box and placed it into a plastic bag. As we made our way back to our hotel, we passed the old lady sitting amid her trash. I stopped and handed her our food. She put out a scrawny hand and gave me a toothless smile.

The trip ended with an Uber ride to the airport with a gregarious driver—Antoine—who loved to talk, so different from the first cabbie who took us to the wrong hotel. And the cost? It was two-thirds cheaper. So much for being afraid to use Uber!

As for San Francisco…well, it was not what we exactly envisioned. The attractions were the same, but tinged with sadness at the rise of homelessness and unclean city streets.

And those conversations with so many diverse people—they will remain in my heart for a long, long time.