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San Francisco Offers Plenty Of Treats

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By DEREK MAUL | The Brandon News

Published: April 9, 2007

I spent most of last week on Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. My wife, Rebekah, was leading a conference over the weekend so I spent the first few days by myself. This is my first visit and so, after a cool clear Friday photographing the Golden Gate Bridge, I checked into our bayside hotel and went out exploring.

Pier 39 was alive with a Disneyload of people. Alcatraz looked impressive, but the biggest group of sightseers stood pointing cameras and laughing at a large group of sea lions who were pointing and laughing at the large group of tourists. Just to be fair I photographed the people.

I downed the requisite crab cakes and chowder before heading back through the teeming crowds. Across the bay a thick bank of fog rolled through the Golden Gate and under the bridge while up on the hills the city still sparkled.

Living in Tampa I'd forgotten how alive city centers can be, especially when the sun goes down. It was Friday evening and the smattering of afternoon sideshows quickly multiplied as the crowds came out in droves.

I found a mug of Peet's coffee -- my favorite West Coast blend -- and enjoyed the show. Apart from being accosted by panhandlers and beggars (more hucksters per linear foot than I've seen in a long time) I rather enjoyed the live theater.

Across from my hotel room a hip-hopping break-dance troupe danced incessantly, down the street a classical guitarist played breathtaking music, and farther along a Caribbean steel band energized everyone who listened. A guy named Jim, who I think honestly believes he is a dog, posed for photos with his three canine friends (the four of them were dressed alike).

I watched a very odd clown set up directly across from a man playing loud gospel music on a boom box. Mr. Pink Hair handed out balloon animals and smiled while Mr. Brimstone grimaced and handed out literature advertising a one-way trip to the fiery depths of hell.

A woman who I suspect may still have been trying to find her way home from a 1960s trip to Haight-Ashbury tried to pin a $10 smile on my jacket, a man offered me a ride in his pedal-powered rickshaw, several human statues competed for attention, and a number of sketch and portrait artists drew enthusiastic crowds.

Eventually I retreated to the hotel parking lot just a few feet above the street, and sat on the hood of my rental car with my feet up on the low wall. It was like having box seats at the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center. Over the next hour I watched the last of the evening light drain away as the drama of city life unfolded below me.

Late in the evening a long string of in-line skaters wove their way past in a kind of soundless dance, 50 to 60 gliders spread out over a couple of hundred yards, some pushing baby strollers, all wearing some kind of blinking light array. Then just as suddenly they were gone. The scene was surreal.
In the morning I expected a quiet aftermath like the day after Mardi Gras or post-Gasparilla Tampa. But San Francisco's sidewalks were already full, people out enjoying the morning air, visitors lined up for double-decker bus rides, merchants opening their stores, beggars working their corners.

By the time I found my coffee I'd run into a marching band, had been almost mown down by some serious joggers, and was stopped by a silver-painted, moon-walking mime -- he never would say what he wanted. Nearby a desperate looking man held out a plastic cup. "Why lie," his sign read, "I need the money for beer."

I felt like I had my finger on the pulse of humanity. Such industry, such frenzied activity, such a multitude of varied and interesting people, such creativity, such beauty, such crying need
But I'd also kind of fallen in love. There's a genuine vitality to San Francisco, a visceral energy, a sense that the city is an organism in perpetual motion. It's the kind of place I'd really like to get to know.

Maybe I'm not such a suburbanite after all. Or maybe, like the famous song, I just left my heart in San Francisco.

Derek Maul is a writer who lives in Valrico. You can reach him at derekmaul@gmail.com.

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