Only In San Francisco
So, there we were at 4th and Market, waiting for the Amtrak bus to collect us and deliver us to the train. We looked up, and whoa!
And before that, there we’d been, waiting for a pizza at Za’s, when I looked up to yell something to Shel about the blasting reggae accompanying our wait, and wow!
San Francisco’s got that ineffable something, or as we’re fond of saying around here, “it has a certain je ne sais quoi but I don’t know what it is.”
In San Francisco buying bread from a pink-haired charmer seems normal,
as does standing at the feet of Sun Yat Sen in the middle of St. Mary’s Square,
in the heart of Chinatown, where cultures commingle cozily.
Where else but in San Francisco could two fearless women get 80-90 strangers waiting to ride the cable car to sing” Happy Birthday dear Dave” to a guy who didn’t even look embarrassed by the attention?
Where else can you sit under a gigantic stained glass dome and lunch on an $18 Reuben sandwich?
It’s not just everywhere that you’ll see brown pelicans giving huge container ships a run for their money,
or street musicians vying with pigeons for the last few feet of space on the edge of the continent.
Even though I haven’t lived there in more years than you might imagine, I’ll freely admit that be it ever so quirky, ever so gorgeous, ever so free to be you and me and it and only itself, there’s no place in the world like the town I once called home.