A Street Car Named Desire

The drops were light and refreshing. Not unwieldy, aqueous weepings from the clouds above, but simply charming little accents that added to the ambience of this mysterious place. Only the bien-pensant stroller sauntered with an umbrella, for the rest of us wayfarers chose the path less taken—an appreciation for puddles and water-beaded hair. I, myself, chose that path. Having never ventured to this end of the country, I appreciated the novelty of everything just that much more…

Alas, the cable car approached but not before the herald by the legendary bell gave us fair warning of her imminent arrival. I boasted my ease of boarding this ingenious mode of transportation and almost fought for the less-coveted standing position. Grasping onto that bar as if it was the difference between salvation and death, I leaned my face into the moist Bay breeze and prayed for a chinook—a subtle homage to my Rocky Mountain homeland.

As we plodded up a Russian and sailed down a Nob, almost like an apprehensive clipper in an unsteady sea, I felt transported—in a Proustian flash—to an era in my childhood in which the fondness of a roller coaster ride could not be surpassed by anything. That excitement and thrill seeking adrenaline from my childhood was the same that day on the cable car, except for one thing: I was not 12 anymore.

Over a decade after my fondness for roller coaster escapades, I was still enjoying the same concept on a streetcar. Reminiscent thoughts rarely occupy me for long; so again, I picked up where I left off, which was on an imaginary boat that clutched to Python-size cables…

Surrounding my tenacious little cable car were the dollhouse-like structures that outlined the narrow streets on both sides, like a hem keeping the streets accountable for their pre-destined path. Unlike any architecture that I have ever seen, the San Franciscan style was a fascinating site on its own. From the commercial buildings built on an incline to the narrow homes adjoined by another built on a decline, the colors and stylish structures followed the ebb and flow of the streets. Then, before I knew it, my flashbacks and awe-struck moments ended at “pier number something indivisible by 3.”

It only seemed appropriate that my schooner on wheels—or cable, rather—concluded at the sea. Tingling with adrenaline, my body felt the remnants of the pulsating cable car as I slowly got off to explore the ever-popular Fisherman's Wharf. Even more akin to a sea ride, you might say I had sea legs, or cable car legs; nevertheless, there was a Wharf that begged upon me to discover something. Unfortunately, this adventure did not include my Desired Streetcar, so to speak…