When I was a very young boy all the gas stations in our town had
colorful, little propellors strung between posts. Designed to attract
customers, the propellors would spin in the breeze and make an odd,
fluttering sound that I still remember well. I’d look out the window of
the back seat of our station wagon and watch the propellors in marvel.
I’d roll down the window so that I could hear their sound. I’d get down
low as to get a good view of the propellors in the sky. I wondered if
they might take off at any moment, carrying the gas stations with them.
My dad was a people watcher. He could sit in a public place all day long
and watch the world as it passed by him. I grew up in New Jersey—the
outer suburbs of New York. An area ruled by autos, it was rare for us to
take public transportation anywhere. But, when we did take the bus, the
train, or the ferry, my dad would invent stories about the people on
them. I suspect that we all play this game whether consciously or not.
We label people and assume certain aspects about their lives. The mental
stories become more elaborate when we’re forced into the idle
observation associated with public transit.
The San Francisco waterfront was still gray from the early-morning
summer fog. For the second time in two weeks I’d visited this very spot
with my camera. The waterfront seemed different on this day. As I looked
deep into the bay, the reflections danced with a darkness that I found
compelling. Mostly amorphous, they changed as we came up adjacent to the
San Francisco Bay Bridge. These long, linear reflections made me stop
in my tracks. The bridge has become familiar after ten thousand visits
to this waterfront, seaming nothing like it did the first time I laid
eyes on it some thirty years ago. Back then the sight of the bridge made
me gasp, now it brought a faint smile and a deep breath of gratitude.
Along San Francisco’s Embarcadero is an old food joint called Red’s Java
House. It’s been there forever. Back in my youth I could get a double
hotdog there for about a buck. So, I went there a lot. I’d walk from my
South-of-Market office down to the waterfront for my hotdog—a long way
for a lunch break. The double dog is now almost $6.00 but it’s been
about thirty years since I first found the place. But, less than six
bucks for a double dog wrapped in a sourdough roll still seems like a
good deal to me.
The city, San Francisco or most any city, is full of small, fleeting treasures. Riches are everywhere—little vignettes of joy, intrigue, and ephemeral pleasure that compel me to click the shutter of my camera. Many are haphazard collections of life’s serendipity. Most affirm my belief that the cosmic powers that run this universe of ours have a very good sense of humor.
Three weeks in Venice is hardly a long time. But, at the start it felt that way. I fooled myself with the illusion was that I'd be there forever—that I was there for good. But, three days later I found myself counting. I was secretly counting the days until the arrival of my sad departure. I shook this diabolical countdown off with a shudder. But, it didn't work. The little clock continued ticking away in my brain and then chimed in again the very next morning.
On the ferry ride into San Francisco I could hardly contain myself. The morning air was brisk and the low light golden as I ran from side to side in the boat, searching for the best photos to make. I must have driven the other, more placid passengers crazy as I walked past them a hundred times. There was simply too much to see. The day and my disposition were fresh and I was getting overstimulated.
Optimism is not born naturally to me with each sunrise. I've never been a morning person nor shall I ever be one. It takes a good hour for the creaky bones and foggy head to allow in the rays of hopefulness. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and grumble at the cats as I lift myself out of the tomb of sleep. I slip into my slippers and shuffle my way to the kitchen. The coffee pot draws my attention before all else. I eagerly await the sound of boiling water and the first sip of the warming elixir. I gulp and then sigh. No, a morning person I shall never be.
The Golden Gate Bridge was shrouded in fog on a recent July morning. This pleased me as I drove across it, for it is my favorite way to see the bridge. Actually, I couldn't see very much of it on this summer day. The bridge was there but mostly invisible. My imagination was needed to complete the picture. The very best thing about the bridge is how it constantly changes in the light and weather. And the best bridge weather for the bridge is thick fog.
