Another dreadful night. Not one wink of sleep. Firstly, at 1am Albina had gone for a shower when suddenly the water stopped. She was all soaped up with shampoo sticking to her hair. After trying to rinse herself under the tap, she went to bed with her soaped up hair and hoped to wait for the shower to start flowing again. By 3 o'clock, after I had tried the water in the shower a few times, there was still no improvement. I called guest services and they sent a plumber there and then. A chap came round in his overalls within 20 minutes, then left and came back with a new shower head. Now shower is OK. Albina showered succesfully at 7 in the morning.
However the second reason for my insomnia was my struggle with the bank to pay my Barclaycard. It was now April 17th, the last day in which to make a deposit before the penalties start. Stefan's payment on my behalf was rejected by the bank. Conversations with the bank only make sense during daytime in London, which for me means the middle of the night in the Pacific. After an exchange of around 20 messages on my app I finally gave up after 6 am and tried the payment directly again on my Barclays App. I was near despair over this. Then, suddenly, at 9am, after breakfast, there was a breakthrough. By some miracle the transfer appeard now in my Barclaycard account. In the nick of times as well as April 17th was the deadline for payment before I would be saddled with penalties.
Around 7.15 am I noticed we were passing land and I took my phone to go out on the Observation deck on my floor to see if I could spot the iconic Golden Gate Bridge over San Francisco Bay. The observation deck was crowded. There must have been some 200 people there, all armed with their phones or binoculars. The Observation Deck below us, the so called forecastle, was also crowded. All eyes were glued on the approaching bridge. We could hear Sammie's voice on the intercom giving us all the history and the technical details of the bridge. She then read out a poem about it written by the chief engineer of the bridge. The whole thing sounded almost like some kind of prayer, as if we were participating in some kind of joint ritualistic act of worship. Certainly the sight was breathtaking, despite Sammee's somewhat excessive verbal outpourings. Silent wonder would have been preferable. In my experience any large engineering structure whose appearance emphasizes its functionality has a beauty of its own, whether it was an Egyptian temple, a bridge or an engineering marvel by Isambard Brunel. Of course the so-called International Orange colour in which the bridge was painted set it off even more effectively against the pale grey morning light of the surrounding sea and sky.
We docked at Pier 29 with a good view of San Francisco Bay Bridge, equally elegant and resplendent, but treated by tourists as a lesser cousin then the Goden Gate. Yet it is a vital two storey communication link between San Francisco and neighbouring Oakland. It was also the site of that dreadful recent eathquake in 1989 when the top level of the bridge collapsed onto the cars on the level below and all in all 87 people died.
There was minimum fuss from the immigration authorities today. Although asked to carry a photocopy of our passport all the authorities wanted to see was our yellow cabin key. The only surprising restriction was the need to wear face masks at the cargo terminal, but not necessarily anywhere else. Our coach tour began around 10am with the first destination being the viewing platform on the east side of the Golden Gate Bridge. On the way there we passed a wartime Liberty Ship built in San Francisco and used in the D-Day landings on Pier 33. We also passed the famous Fishermans Wharf in Pier 39, which looked like a largeish English seaside attraction, a sort of Blackpool or Scarborough. We passed a tram stop with a colourful bus, which, the guide explained had been imported from Birmingham in the UK. Apparantly, the city council had bought individual buses cheaply from different cities, mainly American, which were supplied from their disbanded stock. These buses are now renovated and are a tribute to those different cities, but also a tourist attraction in themselves. There were also tram routes throughout the city and those anachronistic overhead tram lines remind me of those European cities which still have XIXth century tramlines. It also remined me of trolley in London in the 1950s. It look untidy but has a quaintness of its own.
There is also a third form of public transportation, which appears even more outdated and in total conflict with those stifling modern safety regulations. These are the cable cars which rattle through some of the steepest streets of San Francisco with people hanging off them like bunches of grapes. At their teminal they are turned round manually on a moving platform so that they face the other way to restart their return journeys, The guide told us that altogether there are 47 hills in the city, but only 7 main ones. That reminded me of Lisbon.
There was a beautiful view of the city from here and of Alcatraz with its former prison. Incidentally, while talking of Alcatraz. I could not understand why two full coach loads of Borealis passengers decided on Alcatraz as their choice of excursion today, rather than a city tour, or a visit to a vineyard, or whale watching at Monterey. It would be too claustrophobic for me.
We then recrossed the bridge once more and turned towards the Pacific, driving through Lincoln Park towards Ocean Beach. We took the long drive through the wonderful Golden Gate Park. We entered past a large Dutch Water mill, a post war gift from a grateful Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands. The drive through the park was like driving through a land of green enchantment, full of groves and meadows, ponds and polo fields, children's imaginative playgrounds, tea houses and imitation temples. It was formerly a sandy wasteland, but an imaginative landscape architect has made it into a 5 kilometer oasis of nature alongside a great metropolis. We stopped at a particularly attractive square surrounded by the Academy of Sciences, the de Young Arts Museum (topped with an inverted pyramid), a public concert platform and a ferris wheel. The Academy had a roof with two domes covered with grass but with windowed apertures which bring light into the interior. We had a 20 minute break there. It was slighly more comfortable because while still cold, we no longer had that biting sea breeze.
Next we drove to Twin Peaks which must be the highest point in San Francisco. It is so dominant over the rest of the city that it is like Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh, or the ruins of the ducal palace in Vilnius. From the magnificent views across the city and the Bay, you fail to even one of the 47 hills, as it all seems to be levelld out. The most visible landmarks from there are the bridges and the view of the skyscrapers in the financial downtown as well as the long length of Market Strret leading across the city to towards downtown, looking like an arrow aimed at the heart of the city.
Easy to spot were the imaginative Transamerica Pyramid and the Sales Force Tower, currently the highest building. But because the skyscrapers are so concentrated in one area, the view as a whole from Twin Peaks is not as immediately breathtaking as, say, is the view from the Tokyo Skytree. It is nevertheless a view of houses on a human scale where even the residential blocks are normally on average only some 5 storeys high and are surrounded by two or three storey high residential houses that give San Francisco that friendly neighbourly look. A town built for the comfort of its citizens and not for the civic ambitions of its city fathers.With this view both the varied contours of the city and the numerous community neighbourhoods with differeng ethnic background are all levelled off to a flattened anonymous plain. Much of the viewing platform was protected by a waste high wall and dotted with telescopes, but one area was completely unprotected and we stood over what seemed like a massive perpendicular drop in front of us. Those of us with vertigo took a safe few steps back at this point. Imagine my surprise then when a young father, holding the hand of his six or seven year old son, calmly and effortlessly walked off the edge of it and made their way down some 40 metres of a steep grassy slope towards the road below. A precipice to the uninitiated was like a stroll down a steepish hillside to others.
We drove back down from Twin Peaks into the city. We entered the prosperous Castro area with its individually designed houses, often in bright pastel shades and houses which were described as Victorian, because they were built during the reign of Victoria. These were mostly once grey building but now renovated and gentrified in various styles, which our guide described as Italianate, or Stick or Queen Anne, each of which had their own characteristics. We drove down a long street, called Castro Street, I think, and we stopped near Alamo Square Park. This was another delightful spot on a steeply inclined small park with old trees and a view over the local neighbourhood towards the city high rises beyond. Here is the city architecture on a small scale with artfully designed residences, uniform in shape but painted in different colours, with little gables and balconies. They were lining the square on three sides. They resembled some colourful pastry with icing in shades of cream, pale blue, green and ochre, like something from a XIXth century domestic novel. Even an accompanying 6 storey residential block, painted in sky blue, did not look out of place at the bottom of the square.
Then we returned to the long length of Market Street and drove around the Civic Centre with the white Civic Centre building capped with a traditional gabled entrance containing four classical columns, and with a high ribbed cupola, apparently the highest in the United States. It was a cheeky challenge to Washington DC, who required that all state capitols do not exceed the size of the national Capitol. In defying that ordinance, it shows the confidence of this brash city. Also around the square are the Asian Art Museum, the Opera and the Library, all matching the sedate European style architecture of City Hall. We continued further down Market Street driving through the Japanese quarter, St Marys Cathedral, the U.S Mint, Union Square, the Financial District, the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, St Francis Hotel, Chinatown and North Beach, the Italian quarter, which is adjoining Chinatown. Just like New York, I guess. There you go to Chinatown for a meal, and Little Italy for dessert. One interesting building we drive past was green with bay windows overlooking a cafe with a red canopy. It was a house used by film director Francis Ford Coppola where he wrote his screen plays for "The Godfather" and "Apocalyse Now". Then our coach returned down to Emarcadero and we were dropped next to the Cargo Terminal at Pier 29.
We went back to the ship for lunch. We had originally planned to go shopping at Fisherman's Wharf, but it had remained quite cold and Albina opted out, so I decided to go on my own. My specific aim at San Francisco was to have a ride on a cable car, so I turned my steps in the direction of Girardelli Square. I walked first to Fisherman's Wharf, which, as I said before, is like a glorified version of what you get at the end of an English pier. However the buildings have a higgledy piggledy appearance to support the shop fronts of fish and chips houses, souvenir shops, excursion agencies for bus and boat trips, coffee corners, clothes outfitters,and jewellers. There was also an aquarium, a catamaran charterer, a so-called 7D Ride Experience, and a flyer thrill zone, I bought a pretty green turtle at the the Pearl Factory, and a green sweater adorned with the words "San Francisco", to keep me warm during my walk. I visited the lazy sea lions basking at the side of the pier. I also found the cafe Boudin which historically produced the surdough sandwiches which were used by the 49ers, the gold diggers of 1849.
I walked along further until I reached the turntable terminal of the Powell and Hyde cable car. The clunky old carriages had one carriage which is open-sided and one saloon car with a rear platform painted in brown and cream. They look like a relic of the nineteeth century. They have one driver and one ticket conductor and when they arrive at the end stop they chug on to a turntable which is manually rotated so they can then face their route back. As soon as it is in position we all pour on. I preferred a seat in the saloon but many got on the front carriage and poised hanging off the side for their local photographer. I managed to get a photo of myself standing on the rear platform. As soon as they started the cable cars began by climbing a very steep Columbus Avenue. It shuddered and clunked all the way up as we all slipped down against each other under the power of gravity. We continued like this untilwe reached the brow of that hill and started slipping the other way with the downward slope. Taking pictures was difficult as I could not poise my camera easily over the heads of those sitting opposite me. However the views down the side roads falling away from Columbus Street were amazing. How did pedestrains make their way up and down these streets with their shopping, or commuting to work, or going to school? Now I could understand how a native of San Francisco could take his son down that steep slope at Twin Peaks. Either they move around like mountain goats or they rely totally on the various trams, buses or cable cars. I was not sure how far I wanted to go on this route, but when the gruff inspector shouted out "Chinatown" and some people got up to leave, I felt it was time to end this stage of my adventure. So I alighted too.
I could tell by the red lanterns and the Chinese lettering that I was indeed in Chinatown, but with little idea which way to go. I could see the financial district skyscrapers way into the distance and I was aware that this Chinatown was the largest in the world, outside Chinese speaking countries. After trying one block going up and another block going down I was still none the wiser. I did have a small city map with me and found that I was on Grant Avenue. I decided to proceed towards North Beach, the Italian district, as I was getting a little hungry and it was now 4o'clock. I walked on across Columbus Avenue and stopped for a pizza at the Mona Lisa Restaurant, which had some tables outside on the pavement protected by a tarpaulin cover and warmed up by gas heaters. I ordered a beer as well as the house pizza and it was very filling and truly Italian. None of these stupid pineapple extras which the Americans like to include in their pizzas. Initially I was eating on my own inside this sheltered group of tables. However, within ten minutes of sitting and ordering my food, a number of other guests had arrived to eat outside. Finally, to my astonishment, four passengers arrived from the Borealis and instantly recognized me. "Well, Victor, you see, you already have this drawing power." one of them said, when I explained that I had been the first to sit there.
Refreshed after the meal I continued into the heart of the Italian district, passing such bizarrely named restaurants like the "Stinking Rose", but I still wanted to experience getting back to the ship by going up a steep hill and then coming down again. Checking on my map, I realised that I had reached Washington Square. I decided to walk up Union Street to a district called Russian Hill and then to come down again in one of the parallel streets. So I started my climb, and stopping at the crossing of each block. The terrace houses were all still classical examples of elegant Victorian Stick style, row after row and clock after block. I felt confident at first, but after 4 blocks my legs were visibly tiring. I am 76 after all. I was determined not to give up and I also found that after each block the side streets would just fall away in a steep drop. The thought of trying to walk down them would be as daunting, as climbing further up was exhausting. After 5 blocks I felt I had reached my limit. Looking on my map I saw that I still had two blocks to go to reach my goal at Hyde Street. I decided to go and suddenly realized that the next road Leavenworth Street was actually the crest of Russian Hill. Going that extra block to Hyde Street on the same level was a relief in itself.
At Hyde Street I turned right and started walking along a relatively level street full of big residential blocks which must have had wonderful views across the city. I walked along 3 blocks each time seeing that the downward roads on my right might just as well have been precipices. I could not even try to go down them even if I wanted to. The third road was called Lombard Street. That road too fell away somewhere into a distant nothingness. However, the steepest part, leading down to the next block, was shaped like an uncharateristic serpentine, with a red paved road zigzagging all the way down to the bottom of the block. I walked very very carefully down the first bend. Sensing a car moving slowly down behind me, I managed to walk on to the pavement and to the top of a staircase that led all the way down to the next street, That was different. While I slowly moved down the pavement the occasional cars passed me at a speed of just 3 or 4 miles an hour as they manouevred the sharp 150 degree bends. I stopped and looked occasionaly at the drivers and you could see the intensity of concentration on their faces during their descent. Occasionally spotting me looking at them they grinned and responsed to my thumbs up. One car had a young lady, probably a teenager, with he head above the sunroof, filming the progress of her car. She shouted to me cheerfully when I shouted "good luck". I did not fully count the bends when I got back to the lower end of Leavenworth Street, but I believe there must have been arund eight. I sensed that these drivers, like me, were tourists, and this road was a tourist attraction in itself and a bit of a dare.
I continued down Lombard Street for a further 4 blocks and crossing Columbus Avenue again, which cut diagonally across the city grid system. It was getting late and I was deadly tired so I opted out of climbing Telegraph Hill and simply turned down Stockton Street towards the Embarcadero adjoining the seaboard. Then I made my way back pier by pier, passing a vibrant neon blazing Fisherman's Wharf at Pier 39, until I reached Pier 29 and the Borealis. I got back at 8.15, just one hour before all the last passengers were expected on board, so that the boat could leave at 10pm.
I got home and had one attempt at joining a fresh quiz team, in the absence of my regular colleagues. The result of my new team was 13 out of 15. "Plus ca change......"
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