San Francisco Hear the \'Ding,

San Francisco hear the 'ding, ding, ding,' of the trolley car. All my life I heard this bell -- on Rice-a-Roni commercials. But now I am finally here, in the real San Francisco, smelling the salty ocean water and watching the early morning fog roll into the narrow city streets. The peaks of the buildings loom before me, nothing like New York City skyscrapers. Where I am, the structures are low, pointed, almost like Victorian dollhouses. But I am still aware that I am in a large, historic city as I turn my eyes away from my immediate surroundings and I stare at the Golden Gate Bridge.

There it is, the symbol of the city hanging in the distance like a fragile cobweb. I can hardly believe that I am here, and I use this vision as a reminder that I have realized my dream. I have always wanted to go to San Francisco. San Francisco is the gentlest of America's cities. It has none of the bustle of New York City, the coldness of Boston, or the sunny falseness of L.A. It is smaller, homier, yet just as diverse in its population. It is home to one of the most notable Chinatowns in all of America, and North Beach once held a Little Italy to rival New York's.

San Francisco was nearly destroyed by an earthquake, but then it rebuilt itself. San Francisco grew and developed into the place where the Summer of Love was held in the Haight-Ashbury district in the 1960s. There, people gave flowers to one another in the streets. The first readings of the Beat poets like Jack Kerouac and Alan Ginsberg took place in its bookstores. Art, culture, history, and the promise of America, all are wrapped up in the vision of the great San Francisco seascape, and history whispers from every corner of its confines.

Yes, it is what tourists typically do, but I can't help gravitating to the Fisherman's Wharf as I stroll about, my legs aching from the hilly terrain. The flat of the Wharf provides some relief for my calf muscles. The street performers are just setting up. They are part of the scenery at the Wharf. Some jugglers are practicing their acts. One man is balancing a bowling ball upon his chin. A musician strums his guitar. The entire seaside stinks like the scallops and crabs that will be sauteed in butter and fill the pricey plates of tourists later in the day, at some of the city's finest restaurants.

A move on from the wharf into San Francisco's famous Chinatown. I watch the hanging animals in shops, ducks trussed up by their feet, and I carefully weave in and out of the narrow streets, trying not to overturn any of the great heaps of china dishes and flat imported slippers in piles for sale. My stomach growls and it occurs to me that I haven't eaten yet this morning -- I was too excited. I walk into the first dim sum shop I see. The place is filled with people, so I assume it is good. No cereal or bagels for breakfast today. Instead, tiny steaming pockets filled with bits of meat and vegetables are immediately placed in front of me when I nod. I allow myself to make a fool of myself as I try to use the chopsticks to wield the shell-like shapes into my mouth, occasionally taking sips of scalding green tea.