The San Fransisco Treat

I didn't get to San Fransisco until the 3rd week of my trip. I waited and waited and finally it arrived. My mother and I boarded Caltrain (speedy little bugger that runs from town to town) and we settled in for about an hour and 15 minute ride into the city.

The weather when we boarded the train was 80 degrees, no humidity. It was virtually flawless, really. And I noticed as we headed toward the city, that clear and blue sunny sky started to dissipate into a sort of gray, mundane New York looking summer day. My nerves jumped into my throat. Where is this train taking me?! I thought, Where's my sunny California!?

We got off the train and stepped into the...frigidity that is summer in San Fransisco. I just wanted to clear that common misconception about beautiful weather up, before someone else experienced it unknowingly firsthand.

Mark Twain once said, "The coldest weather I've ever experienced was a summer in San Fransisco." Too bad Mr. Twain didn't call me ahead of time and let me know that.

I'm exaggerating. It wasn't that cold. It was about 60 until 11:00 in the am, then rose (if the fog cleared up. Yes, fog.) to about 70. But by golly, if that damned fog didn't clear up you'd be shaken straight down to your underbritches.

The fog obstructed my view of both the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges. I was not a happy tourist. Despite the fact that I downright refused to refer to myself as a  *cringes* tourist , I did carry my camera around with me at all times (mark my words: I will post pictures as soon as I get them developed.)

The last day in the city, we packed our bags and went for once final walk around when I realized: I spent nearly a week in SanFransisco and I hadn't ridden a cable car! If there were awards for the world's worst tourist, I'd have the gold. I can't believe I almost missed it. To think!

So I go. I get in line ( a very long weekendy line) and wait wait wait for close to an hour, all for a little joyride. There's a man sitting under a tree nearby playing his guitar singing anti-war prose and songs about his time in Nam. Then he played, by my request, some good old Elton John.

As Rocket Man filled the chilly air of my last Sunday morning in California, I hopped onto the cable car. With about 60 other people. It was a sardine situation, if you ask me.

We rode all the way to the other side of town and I was planning to ride that same car all the way back, but apparently that seems just a little to easy for Murphy (of Murphy's Law fame.) To my dissatisfaction, I realized (Ok, I didn't realize, I asked the Cable Car operator) that I had to not only get off the car but that I had to wait in an even longer line than before to be able to reboard. It was 1:30. Our train left at 4.

During my wait, I was heckled by a grunged-out looking younger homeless guy, with long ratty brown hair and a potent odor that could make milk curdle or paint crumple right off the walls. "Have you ever killed an old lady?" He asked, "I have."

Good for you, I thought, as I reached into my purse for my cell phone. I called my Grandma to see if she was okay. Just checking.

At 2:00 I boarded the cable car. I requested a special seat (it wasn't really a seat, I wanted to hang off by the pole ala' the Full House gang) So I held on and off we went.

Somewhere on our track we picked up a boy who took the pole next to me. We began talking after I reluctantly snapped a few shots of the streets behind us. "Tourist?" He asked.

"Not really." I lied. "But I am visiting from New York."

Thus began the conversation that lasted as long as the tracks did. By the end of the trip, I took a few pictures of us, and one of him as we walked our seperate ways. You know, I didn't even know his name.