Off we went, to claim San Francisco as our own.
We headed to San Francisco, to claim it as our own.
My car had broken down on the way to campus, but the glory of the day was such that I had simply gotten out and hitched a ride, refusing to speculate that car trouble might put on end to our adventure. “Let’s go to San Francisco anyway,” Estelle said when I informed her of our mechanical misfortune. After attending a gathering with Anais Nin, herself a lovely frail bird with a crown of black braids, a long black cape and cool, slender fingers that gripped my own so tenderly, we hitched back to my car, gave it a try, and when it started on the first attempt, we considered it a sign and headed off towards the Golden Gate to claim San Francisco as our own.
As the sun set, we began to think of dinner. We were turned away from a new French cafe because they had run out of food. We left another restaurant because the waiter was a jerk. As we walked along Powell Street wondering where to eat, a cable car passed by. These were the days when you could hop on anywhere— dangerous mid-street boarding, and a friendly conductor who would eventually ask for your fare. When we handed over our money we asked for a dinner recommendation. The conductor barely nodded. But as the cable car groaned onto Jackson Street, he said, “Eat there,” pointing to The Coachman’s Bar with The Oak Tree restaurant inside.
The tiny bar was warmed by a roaring fire in a corner fireplace, where several off-duty cable car drivers and conductors were gathered drinking. At the doorway to the dining room we were greeted by a reserved British host, who handed us each a carnation and seated us near a window, where every few minutes we could see another cable car rattle by.
A quick glance at the menu revealed we had entered a world quite unlike our own, where student budgets defined our diet. I had never ordered a glass of wine. Suddenly we were confronted with choices and prices staggeringly out of our league. But it was a special night, we said, as we ordered mixed grill and a bottle of red wine.
We were giddy, like school girls on their own for the first time. Estelle was thoroughly in love with our waiter, a blond string-bean of an Englishman, shy and obviously enjoying us thoroughly. I was in love with our meal, with the heavy silverware and beautiful presentation, with the wine that brought an even deeper glow to my already rosy cheeks, with the tiny lamb chops, grilled kidneys, and plump sausages on my plate. As we lingered over dessert, the waiter brought us a complimentary liqueur, setting it down surreptitiously and backing away shyly. After paying the bill and leaving a generous tip, we were insecure about having just $5.00 left between us but confident, somehow, that luck was on our side.
And we were somehow aware of it, aware of some special quality that had nothing to do with how we looked and everything to do with how we felt, how dazzled we were by the world that night…
The full moon hung high over the city, our golden chaperone.
We walked to North Beach and spent the night laughing, dancing, talking to strangers. A man stopped us on the street, excusing himself for the intrusion and commenting that he couldn’t resist telling us how beautiful we were, that we lit up the street with our glow. And we were somehow aware of it, aware of some special quality that had nothing to do with how we looked and everything to do with how we felt, how dazzled we were by the world that night, by San Francisco, by the full moon that by then hung high over the city, our golden chaperone.
As the night wound down , we walked up Washington Street to Powell, towards my car. Safety was not a concern then, in part because it was entirely safe, almost anywhere in San Francisco, for two women, or even a woman alone, to walk at any time, and in part because we were invincible, untouchable in our charmed circle of gold.
As we reached the top of the hill, we saw the last cable car of the night, empty except for the driver and conductor, the ones who had started us on our journey hours earlier. They held the car until we could hop on and offered to take us to my car. I sat alone on the outside bench, soaking up all that golden moonlight, when I looked back at Estelle and our conductor. His name is Joe, I thought suddenly to myself, as if someone had whispered his name. I turned, startled, but I was alone in the moonlight in the cool San Francisco night.
By the time we reached Pine Street, where my car was parked, none of us wanted the night to end. Estelle and I agreed to accompany our new friends to the cable car barn and then to the Coachman for a drink.
“By the way,” the conductor said, reaching a hand towards mine, “I’m Joe.” I jumped and as our eyes met, something bright and hot arced in the air between us and I looked away, flushed and out of breath. I became quieter then, letting Estelle steer the conversation, relying on her vibrancy to carry the night.
The heartbeat of the city
While Joe counted his receipts and changed out of his uniform, Estelle and I played ping pong. The cable cars were tucked away in their covered ports, and never have I felt more privy to the secrets of San Francisco. Cable cars, their image, their song, the sound of their bells, make up some of my earliest memories. I love the ride from downtown, the first glimpse of the bay as you come over the hill, the way they creak as they struggle up a hill, occasionally backsliding and sending a car full of terrified tourists into oncoming traffic. And here I was behind the scenes, in control central, the very heartbeat of the city.
We had just enough time to make it to the Coachman and share a hot brandy before closing. Joe’s partner was long gone, and it was clear that the alchemy was between the three of us. We climbed into Joe’s car and headed towards my car, parked on Pine Street, where we talked until the full moon sank behind the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge and the eastern sky began to glow. As moonlight streamed into the car, Joe told Estelle to look at me. “She looks like she’s made out of gold, doesn’t she, spun gold?” he asked, moving my hair out of my eyes and turning my face to the side. I blushed, but I felt the glow, too, we all did; we all seemed spun out of some magical, golden fiber there in shimmering predawn San Francisco of the ’70’s. Reluctantly, Estelle and I said good-bye to our new friend and headed towards the Lakeville dawn.
School was out a few weeks later. Estelle returned to Southern California for the summer. I rode the cable cars often and finally, as I knew I would, I saw Joe. I rode with him all night and when he was through counting his receipts, we went to the Coachman’s Bar, just the two of us. When it closed, we went for a long walk down to the bay, where Joe kissed me for the first of many times and told me he loved me.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Joe, longer still since I’ve seen or talked to Estelle. I have no idea where either of them is. The Coachman and The Oak Tree are closed; I saw the boarded up facade not long ago. The hills of Lakeville are slowly filling with sprawling housing. It’s been a long time since I wore a yellow dress and I don’t remember the last time the air shimmered with so much golden possibility between me and a charming stranger. Yet I occasionally enjoy a good mixed grill, something I can do entirely on my own without the cooperation of the gods, and red wine still brings a soft glow to my cheeks.
