My exposure to the United States of America is limited to very small tastes years apart with little planning, so it is with some surprise and, indeed pleasure, that I found myself today wandering the Streets of San Francisco.
Prior to my leaving home, Dominique dug out the DVD of Vertigo, which was shot in SF, so that I could memorise all the sets and explore them on my two free days before my board week next week. I thought that was an original idea until I found that the Empire Hotel featured in the last third of the movie is now called the Vertigo Hotel and plays Vertigo on loop non-stop in the foyer.
Undeterred, I explored Sutter Street to find that the beauty salon is now a pizza place and the bookshop now sells burritos instead. Nonetheless the feel of the street is the same.
I did not understand why the tower was in so many shots until I found it stalking me throughout the day. It turns out that it is the Coit Tower, so named after the benefactor Lillie Hitchcock Coit who left a bequest to beautify the city. The tower was the result. It is in so many scenes because Hitchcock thought that it was a phallic symbol – and it stalks people.
San Francisco is, of course, more than just a set for Vertigo or a police drama. It is a place where the street cars go the wrong direction when you hold the map upside down. It is a place which is apparently subject to frequent fires, at least judging by the number of fire trucks racing around the streets with a rather weak sounding siren. It is a place which names groups of streets “Mission” or “Union Square” or “Tenderloin” for no apparent reason or benefit in navigation. It is a place where the tourist office proudly sends you to Westfields to find the unique San Francisco shopping experience.
It is a place where the tourists queue at the terminals at the end of the cable cars for the must-have experience of a ride on one and are prepared to wait for two or three to leave before there is room to accommodate them. The locals, of course, join the journey at the next stop one block further away with no queue.
It is a place where there is a bridge dangerously similar to the Golden Gate only smaller and less impressive but a trap for the unwary tourist nevertheless. They call it the Bay Bridge. It is a place where the Golden Gate Bridge is carefully shrouded in fog at 3pm to frustrate impatient photographers.
It is a place where, presumably due to some planning decision, the fire stairs are all on the outside of the building.
It is a place which, in the middle of a tourist trap known as Fisherman’s Wharf, delivers a sanctuary for sea lions where they lie about in the sun and practice managing the pecking order from time to time.
It is a place where even the transit fare police wear guns but don’t use them when offenders run away. They don’t chase them either! It is a place where, in spite of the hills, locals ride bikes – around them not over them. It is a place where white, black, Mexican, South American and Asian all seem to mingle and go about their business without really noticing that they have different races or looks. It is a place where the Republican and Democrat Primaries are about to move into full swing.
And that is only one day.
Above all, however, in spite of its variety, contradictions and tourist traps, it is a place which is intrinsically American, where people are polite, friendly, helpful and unabashed. It is a place where you can order dinner at a “typical” diner – I am sure it was not a tourist trap – and get too much food and feel like “Happy Days”.
I don’t think I will ever understand San Francisco.
