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 the sun slides upward in the sky, the golden bricks shine in the brilliant, cloudless day. Every twist and turn of the city is a jarring memory of some facet of history. I walk past a street and see a plaque commemorating the earthquake; I take another turn and find myself in the Castro, the neighborhood that was so influential in touching off the gay liberation movement in America. Everywhere I go is history, living history, and the ding, ding, ding of the trolley. This slow and stately method of public transportation so unique to the city constantly sings that I am in a place that is like nowhere else on earth.
