My friend Samantha is back at her nine-to-five job and I have the days to myself for exploring this amazing city. The neighbourhood I’m staying in is called Russian Hill. It’s lively and central with plenty of bars and coffee shops to hang out in, boutiques and corner grocery stores for all the essentials.
The tourist Mecca of Fisherman’s Wharf is five minute’s walk down the hill, Italian town is ten minutes east and the downtown centre of Union Square is a brisk twenty minutes to the south.
Some days are walking days, some are set aside for writing, others are art days. I spent hours trawling the Museum of Modern Art’s huge 20th century show. It was a kaleidoscope or works by artists such as Alexander Calder, Chuck Close, Roy Lichtenstein, Andy Warhol and Mark Rothko. The De Young Museum across town in Golden Gate Park is also holding an exhibition of Post-Impressionist works featuring many Van Gogh, Cezanne and Gauguin masterpieces. I queued for two hours to spend a few moments with some of my favourite paintings. They’re expecting nearly half a million people. San Franciscans take their art very seriously!
Some days are dedicated to building watching. From an architectural perspective, this must surely be the most beautiful North American city. There are row upon row of Victorian houses, exquisitely restored and painted in glorious colour schemes, hence their name “˜the painted ladies’. On Russian Hill there are some lovely examples, but as I begin to rove further afield I’m finding some amazing houses in Nob Hill, Pacific Heights and Haight Ashbury.
Four main styles predominate, although many buildings combine different styles. I’ve slowly begun to work out the difference between the gothic revival houses with their pointed arches and gabled roofs; the Italianate buildings with their tall cornices and neo-classical doorways; the simpler and less ornate Stick style which emphasizes the buildings’ “˜verticality’; and the lavishly decorated Queen Anne houses with their towers, turrets and intricate spindle-work.
When I start to feel a bit culturally overloaded, I head for the coast. I hired a surfboard the other day and tried my luck in thick onshore conditions at Ocean Beach. The bloke at the surf shop warned me about cross currents, but I hadn’t anticipated their power. The water was icy, the surf pounding. Just getting to the back was exhausting with each duck-dive sapping my strength. When I finally made it to the line-up, the cross current was hell bent on dragging me to Los Angeles. Staying in position required non-stop paddling, which was no fun at all. The board I’d hired was too small for me and the teetering rides were wobbly and short. But at least I can say I’ve surfed northern California!
More successful are our evening beach walks. On non-foggy days we set off for Baker Beach or one of the smaller coves just south of the Golden Gate Bridge. You park on the road in the dense shade of pine trees, then follow paths through forest and veld down to the beaches. There are tall black cliffs, dark sand and a hollow shore break that echoes off the land. Streams trickle from springs and snake across the sand.
As the sun settled like a scarlet beach ball in the water the other day, dolphins surfed closer to the shore and the air grew heavy with a gentle sea mist. It was silent, the light evanescent, the moment held breathlessly between the swimming heat of day and the ink of night. This is indeed a beautiful place.
