Nostalgia (which is preferable to neuralgia) swept over me as I took in the sight of the trees and houses on the hills of South San Francisco and San Bruno. Traffic, by Atlanta standards, was nonexistent, the freeway was wide and pothole-free, and I approached the southern edge of The City with both trepidation and glee.
As the freeway gets to San Francisco, it changes suddenly, like a jump cut in a dream, to being just a city street with parked cars and homes and streetcar tracks. A horde of commuters waited on a train platform built in a faux-Chinese style. Teenagers meandered across the street in a small pack. Traffic moved easily from red light to red light.
In a few minutes, I was entering Golden Gate Park. I thought of Spreckles Lake, which was really more like Spreckles Puddle, a mile or two to the west. My model ship had sunk there in its ill-fated maiden voyage during the one year we lived on 36th Avenue, and George Harrison had led a crowd of sycophants, fans, and Hell’s Angels past there while I was wallowing in my ignorance of this great event some half-a-block away.
And then, the street signs. Balboa, the street one of my schools was on; Geary, the street on which we sat in a pizzeria and watched the smoke from the Cliff House fire drift overhead; California Street, the thoroughfare from which my brother and I would run like maniacs to catch our connecting bus on Geary on school mornings.
I only caught fleeting glimpses of the Presidio as I sped under it and through it, but I had already come to a decision. I had to come back and bring my wife and son with me.
My driver’s ed teacher, many years ago, had instilled in me the notion that drivers should always plan ahead. Just think of how proud he would have been had he seen me, in the airport parking garage, place a wad of cash on the front passenger seat in anticipation of paying a toll to cross the Golden Gate Bridge some 20 miles away. Okay, maybe the word isn’t “proud”; maybe it’s “concerned.” But that is neither here nor there because I was prepared.
Well, imagine my surprise when I rounded the bend to get on the bridge and saw a sign reading, “No Toll Northbound Lanes.” The northbound tollbooths of my youth were empty, forlorn. It’s a good thing my boyhood ambition to be a toll-taker on the Golden Gate Bridge went unfulfilled. I’d probably be out of a job now.
The bridge itself was The Bridge, stately, magnificent, and thrilling. I envied the tourists who walked along it, even the guy who was testing the tensile strength of the cables by tugging on one. I stole a quick glance out toward the endless Pacific and imbibed its beauty.
My next challenge involved finding the right exit off the freeway Californians call “The One-O-One.” Dividing my attention between driving and consulting the directions I had printed off Yahoo!, I was able to determine that I was supposed to take the exit for the Richmond Bridge and I-580. I saw a sign that said something about the Richmond Bridge. I took the exit. There didn’t appear to be any I-580 at the bottom of the ramp, so when the light turned green, I just went straight ahead to the on-ramp and got back on “The One-O-One.” The correct exit was a mile or so further along.
I got lost at first, and had my suspicion concerning this confirmed for me when I got to a dead end in a subdivision, Stepford Village or something like that. I retraced my steps and found the motel, after having been forced onto a couple of side streets because of a strange local custom involving terminating lanes for no apparent reason. I checked in, got my key card, and was informed that my Internet associates, Mark and Bernie, had been asking for me.
I parked the car and removed myself and my things from it. As I closed the car door, I heard a voice from above. It was Mark, standing at the rail of the walkway on the second floor. He didn’t seem to be wearing any pants.
Tomorrow, Part VI: The Show
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