THINGS THAT MAKE ME CRAZY: San Francisco

Mark Twain is rumored to have said, “The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco”and now I understand. (This is unverified, and possible a complete lie, so no hassling me.)

In case you didn’t know (we didn’t) July/August is not the best time, weather-wise, to visit San Francisco.

I know, summer, California, you expect heat, right?

Well, they call San Francisco Fog City. Being long time fans of Tofino, BC, we now have a frame of reference. Fog City is like Tough City, folks. Expect mist and wind… rejoice if you get sunshine.

So we’re on the Hop-On-Hop-Off bus one afternoon for a tour of the city. We’d finished our shopping at Macy’s – for jeans and t-shirts, since we didn’t bring any – and were heading out to meet our daughter, Otis.

Suddenly our bus pulls over. The driver gets out. Gets back in. Shuts off the engine. Gets out again and disappears. There’s a guy outside my window, talking on his phone, gesticulating and flailing. Someone hollers down asking what the problem is.

“The bus hit my car,” he yells back. “Didn’t you feel anything?”

He’d been running behind our bus for a block or two before anyone noticed.

My Mr.(Always)Right and I sat there for about 15 minutes, knowing Otis would be waiting. Finally figured we’d lose less time walking, so we got off.

Here’s the other thing about San Francisco. Hills. Steep hills. Up. Down. Carrying bags that grew heavier by the minute. Naturally, the sun WAS out right then, and we were stinkin’ hot.

Finally after several miscommunications, and circling Alamo Square a few times, we found Otis, and together trundled down to the next “hop-on” spot, as indicated on our trusty map.

We waited. And waited. And waited some more. Clouds moved in. We noted to each other that none of us had seen a bus along this route, in the entire time of our disorientation. Very strange.

Finally MyMAR goes into the nearest store, to ask what time the bus usually arrives.

“Oh,” the man laughed. “The bus doesn’t stop here. That’s a typo.”

With uncharacteristic restraint, my husband inquired as to where we might actually find the bus.

“I have no idea.” The man appeared mystified. “People always ask me that.”

By sheer accident, we saw the bus heading down a nearby street. We threw ourselves onto the road, screaming and waving. The driver pulled over and let us get on.

“Did you KNOW,” panted my husband, “that your MAP. Is incorRECT?”

“Oh yeah,” he answered. “It’s been wrong for years. But I’m jus’ the driver.”

The final loop of our bus tour was over the Golden Gate Bridge. It was around 5 pm and the sun we’d enjoyed briefly when we “hopped on” was long gone, pushed away by a wall of fog we could literally see settle over the city. So we’re outside, on the top of a bus, heading across a very long bridge, very high above the water. The wind is so strong I’m not only holding onto my hat, I’m holding onto my glasses.

 

MyMAR sat with his bare feet burrowed into the Macy’s bag holding our clothing purchases. Ccccccold. Ssssso. Ccccold.

A couple in front of us were sharing a jacket while she sat on his lap. Anyone small enough was curled up on the floor of the bus, under the seat.

 

 

 

By the time we got back, all we could think of was getting inside, getting warm and getting fed. So we stopped at the first seafood place we stumbled into. And it was goo-ood.