A heart left behind

It is often quoted that one should not come face to face with one’s heroes. It is usually a let down as even heroes seem disappointingly real and falter like mere mortals.

San Francisco was a city that had been on mind ever since the Alistair McLean novel I read back in the 8th grade. Throw in a few movies, a few songs and finally Vikram Seth’s superb novel in verse, and I was just about desperate to witness this wonder on the west coast. And my first visit had me dreaming of a time in the city with drama, fog, romance, style and qualities of a girl I wished I had asked out.

The west coast is blatantly different. The parts of North California that I visited had me promptly recall rainy hill stations between Pune and Mumbai and those near Ooty. I was also amazed by the magnitude of immigrants that I witnessed. If they weren’t Hispanic they were Asian. And if they weren’t Asian, they were Indian. Besides the weather, I loved the fact that mountains were always in sight no matter where I was.

But let’s leave aside those pointless demographics and turn our attention to the very different city of San Francisco.

The un inspiring structures in the Financial District

Few close friends and I drove our way into the city. And as we did, I failed to be impressed by the city’s residential and business structures. The city is not pretty at all. I was appalled by how the city let ugly buildings come up in Downtown. I found very few buildings making a conscious effort to look good or to portray good architecture. This experience was entirely unlike the approach to Chicago, Boston or NYC.

What it lacked in architectural dexterity, it more then made up in it sheer uniqueness. The guide books warned me of the city’s inclination for inclines. I assumed that it was “your typical American warning of hot coffee being hot” but I assumed wrong.

Scaling Russian Hill

Going up Russian Hill on our approach to Lombard street had our Toyota Corolla struggling. A light dab of rain did not help as we slid and slipped our way up the street. And five adults in a pointless Toyota ensured a scary experience. We finally made it over the hell and down the wonderfully crooked Lombard Street making the whole change of elevation worth the effort.

Crooked Street

The quaint trams/cable cars were a treat to ride in. We dipped and climbed regularly as non tourists actually hung on to their staple commutes. Meanwhile, I established my tourist status with a wide grin and a trigger happy camera.

San Francisco’s cable rides

Following the tram ride, we walked through the entire city on foot. And roads that looked thoroughly harmless in my two dimensional map loomed large with large inclines and knee paining declines. I do wish they pass a city law that all San Francisco Street maps must be 3 dimensional or isometric. As I made my way through the city streets, the Golden Gate played hide and seek with the fog as promised by the guidebooks.

Through the financial district with tall but unimpressive buildings, I entered Chinatown. Sure the people looked Asian but the streets felts Indian. Good spilled out of store boundaries. Hand painted signs marked merchandise. Cheap plastic tumblers that adorn most middle class loos in India stood proudly out side the shops. Cantonese flew across my ears, roasted ducks wafted under my nose and the streets narrowed like an old town market in India. Surely, then, a city within a city!

Next, another steep climb to the Coit tower for some breathtaking views of the city! The new Bay Bridge built after the 1906 earthquake, Alcatraz and the Golden Gate surrounded the small city of San Francisco like bigger brothers.

Some more walking had us pass a jazz café, sushi bars and souvenir shops and finally landed us at the start of the cable car station at Ghirardelli Square. Famous for its old school chocolate factory, it was almost mandatory that we tried some. A cross dresser handed me my chocolate Sundae which made its way to my stomach in a very ordinary fashion. I am not much of a chocolate fan but I was told by my chocolate loving friend that it was perhaps the best chocolate fudge Sunday in the world.

The evening had ended and the night had begun. The city’s lights now gleamed as we made our way to and across the orange Golden Gate. It was time to meet my hero.

The Golden Gate(Courtesy:Praveen Chavannavar)

Like most American Structures, its sheer size failed to match the hype. Yet, the bridge looked beautiful. Spot lights focused on its trusses made it glow in a magical haze. The fog had disappeared and the bridge stood undaunted. The Golden Gate was all that I had imagined it to be.

City lights (Courtesy:Praveen Chavannavar)

And thus, a day was spent. Good sea food was consumed and burnt through an enchanting city walk. Music was heard and uniqueness felt. The eyes were finally rewarded an orange member on whom verses have previously flowed.

Painted Ladies

Despite it being not obviously beautiful, the city left me with a warm fuzzy feeling. For all practical purposes and for some personal reasons, I think I left my heart in San Francisco.

“The moon’s a fingernail and slowly sinking
Another day begins and now I’m thinking
That this indifference was my invention
When everything I did sought your attention

You were my compass star
You were my measure
You were a pirate’s map
A buried treasure

If this was all correct
The last thing I’d expect
The prosecution rests
It’s time that I confess: I must have loved you”

— “Ghost Story” by STING.