Vignettes Of San Francisco | Page 2

it can reach with one
foot in the great Pacific, nearly a week from New York and a month
away from China, some people wouldn't like it, but something
vagabondish in me rejoices to have run away from them all. Especially
at night when the fog comes in on the city and shuts out even Oakland,
and fog horns out of the Golden Gate call mournfully, and boats in the
bay go calling their lookout calls, I get this feeling of far-offness from
the rest of the world that is very gratifying.
And I love the sound of San Francisco, the sound of its singing - some
cities roar and others hum, but San Francisco sings. And I love the look
of it and the feel of it. I love to stand, on its hills in the mornings when
the bride-veil fog is going out to sea and the smoke and steam and fog
and sunshine make one grand symphonic morning song. And I love to
stand on high hills on clear days when all her cubist houses stand bold
in the sunlight and the cities across the bay are so close to the touch.
And I love its color, flowers and girls and splashes of the Oriental. And
I love its Bohemia which is not affected, but real. I love it because it is
young and live and spontaneous and humorous and beauty-loving and
unashamed of anything that is life. Oh, I don't know.
If I were in New York and it should begin to suffocate me I would run

and run across the continent and never stop once until I landed on the
top of Telegraph Hill.

At the Ferry

The shrill of newsboys, the bass of older venders, the call of taxis,
trolleys that proceed all day in ordered sequence, the wide swing of
traffic on the Embarcadero, a tang of salt in the air, the atmosphere of
flowers for sale, hoarse call of ferries in the bay like politicians who
have spoken too much in the, open air and lost their voices, the
beautifully ordered hurry and bustle and expectancy of people on their
way somewhere, and over it all the mentor of the police.
"Help pass the time pleasantly," so does the electric piano coax away
our nickels. To those who know music it is a horrible sound, but to the
rest of us its tunes are rather gay. On the wall a defunct comedy flashes.
Hypnotized, but never amused, we gaze at it as we wait for the great
doors to swing back. A woman is thrown from an auto by her husband,
and in her fall displays a pair of husky, ruffled underwear. Time was
when that would have raised a howl of joy, but no longer. She hardly
touches the ground when we find ourselves gazing at an orchard of
California figs, zip, the woman picks herself up, gazes comically at the
audience for a laugh and receiving none, hops with phenomenal agility
up astride of the hood of the auto, piff, a yard of Santa Rosa hens, ping,
the husband throws his wife up to the roof of a skyscraper, the
commuters gaze solemnly, biff, a scene from Santa Clara, clang, the
gates are opened.
On the Sausalito side, a jammed together happy vacation crowd,
grotesquely varied and elaborately gotten-up hikers, bags and suitcases
to fall all over everywhere, professorish looking men off, "taking a
book along," people laden with all the cheap magazines in the market,
smartly dressed people on their way to country homes in Marin and
Sonoma, a well modulated, nicely groomed crowd - bing, the doors
slide back and everybody rushes off for a holiday.

Commuters and tourists, most of the time I'd rather be a tourist. They
are easily distinguished in the crowd, an accent from Louisiana, a
woman who has just returned from the Orient, a man with continental
manners, they are easily distinguished. and the predatory red-capped
porters know them well. We are wistfully sorry to be going only to
Oakland, we long to go out on the Main Line, the out-leading,
mile-wandering, venturesome Main Line. Reluctantly we turn to where
duty and necessity calls us ignominiously to the electric suburban.
The first sight of San Francisco. "Ah, this is San Francisco!" The shrill
of newsboys, the bass of older venders, the flash of electric signs. Do
you prefer "Camels", "Chesterfields" or "Fatimas"? the call of taxis,
invitations to hotel buses, the wide sweep of traffic on the Embarcadero
- "So this is San Francisco."

The Union-Street Car

It is surprising how many people patronize the shabby little thing. But
then it waits right where those who leave the ferry may see it first as
though it were the most important car