For all that San Francisco is called Fog City, I've never yet seen it shrouded in fog. I must just have been lucky...
The weather is kind - the sun is shining and a chill wind is blowing along the pristine streets. Arriving off the Zephyr I find that I have lost my land legs; the ground beneath my feet tilting me off balance. It's a most peculiar sensation, which keeps catching me unawares. By the morning of our second day it's just about gone, only causing me to pause for a moment when I stand up too fast.
We've been to San Francisco before, and have done most of the tourist things - the sea lions at Pier 39, the trip across the Bay to look around Alcatraz and under the famous Golden Gate Bridge. So, there's not a lot left that we want to do.
The one thing I want to do, of course, is to ride the trams. You could put me on a tram at eight in the morning, with a day pass, and I'd happily ride them all day until midnight, there is something magical about them.
The first tram we ride on, someone kindly offers me a seat... not what I'd wanted. Thereafter I abandon all English politeness and inhibition and whiz my way round to board at the front, pole position - standing - and refuse all offers of a seat. This is my place and I'm keeping it. Hanging on as we round corners, having a fabulous view of the famously hilly streets, hearing the banter of the driver with his passengers, all make me phenomenally happy. Yes, I could ride the trams all day.
Of course, we can't do that. So, we head for the Wells Fargo Museum and spend some time there, tapping out messages in morse code, learning how to drive a team of horses, identifying bandits. Andrew is in his element with the banking ledgers and machinery. It's a good museum.
When getting cash from the main Wells Fargo bank, the doorman tells us we can go up in the lift to the roof garden, take a seat, look at the views. Well, who'd have thought it.
We leave Fog City on the Caltrain through the suburbs. No city looks good from the train tracks, and this one is no different. Litter, abandoned trucks, slum dwellings, hidden from the main part of the city, but still a part of it. Somehow, it gives the place a bit more balance to know that it's not all bright roof gardens, slick businessmen and shiny buildings.
 |
| The view from our hotel room |
The weather is kind - the sun is shining and a chill wind is blowing along the pristine streets. Arriving off the Zephyr I find that I have lost my land legs; the ground beneath my feet tilting me off balance. It's a most peculiar sensation, which keeps catching me unawares. By the morning of our second day it's just about gone, only causing me to pause for a moment when I stand up too fast.
We've been to San Francisco before, and have done most of the tourist things - the sea lions at Pier 39, the trip across the Bay to look around Alcatraz and under the famous Golden Gate Bridge. So, there's not a lot left that we want to do.
The one thing I want to do, of course, is to ride the trams. You could put me on a tram at eight in the morning, with a day pass, and I'd happily ride them all day until midnight, there is something magical about them.
The first tram we ride on, someone kindly offers me a seat... not what I'd wanted. Thereafter I abandon all English politeness and inhibition and whiz my way round to board at the front, pole position - standing - and refuse all offers of a seat. This is my place and I'm keeping it. Hanging on as we round corners, having a fabulous view of the famously hilly streets, hearing the banter of the driver with his passengers, all make me phenomenally happy. Yes, I could ride the trams all day.
Of course, we can't do that. So, we head for the Wells Fargo Museum and spend some time there, tapping out messages in morse code, learning how to drive a team of horses, identifying bandits. Andrew is in his element with the banking ledgers and machinery. It's a good museum.
When getting cash from the main Wells Fargo bank, the doorman tells us we can go up in the lift to the roof garden, take a seat, look at the views. Well, who'd have thought it.
We leave Fog City on the Caltrain through the suburbs. No city looks good from the train tracks, and this one is no different. Litter, abandoned trucks, slum dwellings, hidden from the main part of the city, but still a part of it. Somehow, it gives the place a bit more balance to know that it's not all bright roof gardens, slick businessmen and shiny buildings.
No comments:
Post a Comment