The Embarcadero, Ferry Building

            It was the third day of the week. Wednesday. This time, Alan wanted to see what the big deal was. He met his coworker Sergio down at the Peet’s coffee on Fillmore Street, then it was time. Taking the 31 all the way down to Embarcadero, they walked across an overpass for the Embarcadero Shopping Center, green iron tables and benches shaded by steel umbrellas jotting from the centers, strewn along mosaic tiling from one street end to the other and into more levels of outdoor shops. Sergio was long finished with his cup of Americano, while Alan was ensconced in his chair slowly drinking a latte. They waited, looking out beyond the bridge where they sat, staring down the streets towards busy Market in the distance, clouded by big skyscrapers that seemed more like massive mirrors reflecting back all around it the other competitors for the skies.

            “It’s usually around this time,” Serge was assuring his friend, looking down at his Fossil watch.

            Alan sighed. “She’s probably not that great looking,” he said flatly. The Italian turned quickly to him, a look of horror in his green eyes.

            “No, you’re wrong,” he spat at him in a soft Italian accent, shaking his head. “I tell you, she’s something. Along this stretch, walking from the theater up there.” He pointed to the other side of the bridge where up a flight of wide steps loomed the glass encasing of what was the indie theater Landmark Cinema. “You’ll see her. It’s always before a four o’clock showing, a bright blue coat, and heels. Always high heels, and the wildest kinds!”

            “Blonde?” Alan asked.

            “No, brunette.”

            “What if she’s with someone?”

            Serge shook his head confidently. “No, there never is someone. Just her. The lone Madama.” Alan started laughing, tossing the rest of his latte out of the cup over the ledge.

            “Jesus, you’re a fucking creeper! Giving her a name, spying on her every month practically,” he laid out to his co-worker. The only person in sight was an older gentleman in corduroy pants and a fleece burgundy zip-up coming down those flights of stairs.

“It’s only once a month! If I didn’t have to drop off the stationery to the law office out here that day, I never would have seen her,” Serge explained, never once turning his head from the direction of the cinema. “She saw me too—it was gorgeous. Her eyes, blue, and bright red lips. Not in a tacky sense too, it all fit perfectly.” They waited another fifteen minutes. The Fossil watch’s hand struck 4:22 P.M.

Alan was growing restless, almost standing up and ready to shake Serge’s hand when she appeared. A small, young girl of a beautiful mixture between Asian and some Anglo in traces of her wide face was descending the stairs before their eyes. Her blue eyes supported heavy heaps of mascara-laced lashes that flickered when her long straight hair brushed against her brows as the wind danced through the plaza. Her mini pouty lips were glowing red. The bright blue trench coat she wore touched perfectly at the knees of her denim skinny jeans, the sounds of her blush-colored pumps kicking quickly and musically on the mosaic. Both hands were in the pockets of the coat as she looked onward, fresh and unemotional.

Alan stayed silent as she passed by swiftly where they sat. Her eyes quickly glanced their way suspiciously, and she picked up her pace. Serge was beaming.

“I told you!” he said happily. “Sweet Madama! Always the third Wednesday, off to the movies! Oh man, she gives me joy.” They started walking in the opposite direction after watching her disappear into the corridors of the shops, but they kept trying to look back in case she was not fully out of view.

“You’ve never bothered to approach her?” Alan was asking.

“Would you ever interrupt a lion during its hunt of a zebra?” Serge retorted, turning to Alan. “The same reason I don’t want to go up to her.”

“You weird Italians! I’m just saying, you like her so much, ask her out. What you’ve got to lose?”

Serge stopped in his tracks as they just got off the escalator going down onto the main street. Pulling Alan’s sleeve, he urged him to follow, where they stopped in front of a glossy chocolate store window front that showed their reflections almost opaque and perfectly. “We’ve got all this to lose. Twenty-something year olds just out of college. We got nothing, besides working at a god-damn copy store, and if rejected by some cute little thing what dignity do we have left?”

Alan studied his image: tall, pale, and short uncombed hair with a protruding Cesar-like nose from thick brows. Compared to his friend, dark and shorter but more pleasing in the face, Alan seemed to have less dignity than Serge who at least had his looks. “You sure man?” he asked Serge, who was now fixing his light messy hair in the window. “I don’t know what you’re bitching about, you’re the stylish one.”

“You know women, they’re peculiar creatures! They want more intuitive things than damn style.”

“Might be right.”
            “I am right for a fact. Besides, if something were to happen,” they kept on walking back towards Market through the back streets of the Financial District, “I’d get to know her, learn her tastes, favorite music, where she goes out to dinner, what she likes and dislikes—the masterpiece is ruined. I just love the look of the girl, I’m afraid everything will shatter if I even learn her name.”

“But, what if,” Alan began, raising his index finger in doubt, “her name actually is Madama?”

Serge smiled, shaking his head and replied, “That’d be too perfect of this world then.”

“She’s nice to look at for sure, man, but it’s nothing too weird? I mean, she’ll start to notice eventually. Remember that book you let me borrow, Lolita? Yeah, pretty much.”

“You must think I’m very strange since I’m foreign. It’s just a wonderful idea, of such a person wandering the streets freely. Coming to San Francisco, I knew there’d be cool and pretty friendly people, but they haven’t got the look. I mean, some try too hard to be outgoing and different. Madama seems effortless, like she’s unaware that what she does is different. Perfectly out of the ordinary.”

“Ha! You may think it’s wonderful, but once she catches you it’ll be the police and Chris Hansen to deal with.”

Serge looked crossly at him. “Chris who?’

They were both scheduled to work the next Friday afternoon, the FedEx Kinkos along Van Ness Avenue. It was slow, thanks to the masses producing their own photos and printings via web or at home on refined Macbooks; Serge was up to something, having been at the computer for almost an hour. Alan was just staring out the window, waiting for a person to walk through the doors, but giving up he turned to Serge and started investigating his friend’s fixation.

“Don’t judge,” Serge instantly blurted, “it’s something I would want to give Madama.”

“You’re really making something for her?” Alan said with amusement in his voice.

“Sure! I mean, perhaps I will give it to her one day, and we could go for coffee, a dinner—work something out. It’s only a card. Letter press and everything. Here, come look!” Eagerly he moved off his seat and beckoned Alan over to the screen. It would be a small note card, soft blue, nearly the same as Madama’s coat, with the words To A Lonely Girl in scribbled font, white ink. He printed the work, and the result was simple but beautiful; sturdy and smooth albeit the letter pressed wording, and another scribbled message inside that concluded I think of you.

Alan grew hot. He wished Serge wasn’t so romantic and idealistic; it made Alan realize how he himself was so empty inside. Sure, he wanted to meet a woman like the one that walked gracefully along those steps in a blue coat and petite pumps, but the bigger picture proved these things weren’t in store for simple and plain Alan, having not been with anyone since he graduated college two years ago. Picking up the card and examining the thin fragment in his hand, Serge asked him confidently, “What do you think? Perfect for her? Imagine the day she gets this little surprise. The world will stop turning, or at least hers will. And mine shall start and never end! If, she accepts it.”

“Yeah, if,” Alan snapped straight away. “I think it’s a waste, Serge. It’s nice without a doubt—keep it for another date or a relative at that.”

Serge’s jaw dropped. “I don’t, well what are you saying? I want it only for her.”

Alan glared back, straight-faced. “C’mon, we got work to do. We shouldn’t—you shouldn’t—get carried away with girls who are probably bitches after all. I’m just watching out for you, man.”

Serge sighed, slouching over at the desk, his eyes leveled with the card he had just produced. “You’re right. I am a freak. A strange foreigner who’s only amusement is dreaming of a person who he’ll never know. Fuck this!” he tore the card perfectly down the fold and threw it to the floor. “I know, I know we have to organize the back room. I got carried away with this fucking note. I can see how stupid ideas can get me behind in what really matters.” And being the good-natured young man he was, he shrugged and marched towards the back of the store, Alan amazed at how easy his coworker could get over trifle musings like a card for a nameless woman.

But he could not. He took the two bits of Serge’s card home, rather than throw it out, and stared at the pieces in his hand. Perhaps she wasn’t a cold person she seemed to be, the Madama. And he was growing dull of his ill notions about people and their interactions. Seeing her started a spark in him, something he hadn’t felt in quite some time. Serge was right, something else Alan hated.

He decided next month. Maybe he would try.

Third Wednesday of March. Spring was coming, clear blue skies compared to the dull gray of the last encounter. Alan waited, more dressed than before, in his best dark jeans and warmest but fine-looking knitted cream zip-up. The colors would fairly contrast hers as she passed. He was there alone, and grateful for Serge having given up on the Madama. He sat straight against the green chair, almost too stiff. He noticed this odd posture and was just readjusting when she came out. It was just like before, she was, but her shoes were knee-high gray boots, and in her ears were a set of headphones. Her iPod clearly distracted her attention, as she walked slowly but casually by Alan with no glance.

In another attempt, feeling he neglected her in his attention the first time, he followed her. He did want to know more, about what she did, where she was off to—he wasn’t afraid to risk ruining the simple masterpiece. And where she went, past the shops and across the Embarcadero with its bold palm trees and skateboarders and lined tents of art vendors, was straight into the Ferry Building. Inside the sunshine flooded the long walk of shops on the ground level. It was crowded with shoppers and cooks looking for exquisite gourmet ingredients in the individual specialty stalls, but Alan never lost sight of the girl. He followed her past the open Japanese tea room and turned the corner at the fresh seafood to where she went into the miniature Italian grocer on the other end. He went in as well, hiding himself behind a steel rack pelted with packaged rosemary and pastas with bottled vinaigrette. With the shop now growing large in customers, Alan concluded that this would be the closest he could get in an attempt to give her the note; he quickly grabbed a small paper package of salami and stole the spot right behind Madama. Her scent of citrus, more like orange, gave the young man a passionate sensation that felt surreal, but calming, almost lively. He looked over her shoulder to see what it was she was buying: a glass bottle of green Italian soda and a plump jar of raisins. Just as she was looking down into her purse on the left to reach for her wallet, he swooped his arm on the right to place the note, in a crisp white envelope tied with a green ribbon, perfectly next to the raisin jar. He left, too uneasy to stick around for giving any explanation to her. He didn’t even turn around to see her amazement or surprise at the mysterious note.

He did remember he walked out with the salami, without paying.

If only he knew where else she would be, other than on the third Wednesday of the month, then he would have sought her sooner and shown himself. That was the misfortune of the plan, and Alan was doomed to wait another month. The time came, and thank god he got off at one from Kinkos. He rushed to leave the place, but Serge, who still was running on about some new bar in the Marina he had been frequently visiting, stopped his talk and asked Alan where he was so quickly off to.
            “I’ve got things to do,” was all he replied.

Serge looked at the clock. “Let me come with you,” he suggested. “We got enough people in here today; I’m sure I can slip out and tell the manager something.”

Flustered, Alan ran his hands through his hair, “I don’t know. It was quick, just to like, um, the post office.”

“If that’s it, then maybe after you do that you can accompany me,” Serge decided, grabbing his coat. After going to talk to the manager he and Alan were out the door. “What did you want to do?” Alan was asking, “How long will it take?” He had three more hours before she would appear.

Serge gave him a sly smile as they crossed Van Ness to the bus stop. “Well, I’ve been thinking, and I want to see if the Madama is there today. You think I’ve forgotten what day it is?” Alan said nothing. “Well you know it’s special. Landmark Cinema. Before four o’ clock, give or take ten minutes. I want to see her one more time.”
            “One more time?” Alan repeated. “Why bother to even see her at all?” He was getting hot again inside.

Serge, still having the romantic sly smile Alan detested, shrugged and said, “I just have that feeling, you know? It’s been a month, and maybe her magic has worn off. Or maybe it has grown. You see, Alan? I don’t know! And I need to. That’s crazy, I know it sounds. But that’s the sort of impact she has made on me.”

Alan really didn’t have a choice to decline accompanying Serge. Practically that was his destination, and he knew regardless of the turning of tides, he wanted to see her. If Serge was there, maybe he would surprise the two of them and confront the woman, and perhaps Madama would be moved and embrace him with passion so lifting it would send Serge into a shock, shattering his dreamy notions, that his romantic fortunes did not always come out the way he wanted. “Well, if that’s how you feel, my friend,” Alan began, “let’s go.”

A whole hour went by as they waited in the front spiral staircases from the shopping center that led straight down into the Embarcadero. This way they would catch the girl off guard, and following her once made Alan confident she would walk down this way again, and prove a skeptic Serge that she wouldn’t be going down that way. “There are the lower levels, other exits out to the roads,” he argued, “what if we miss her?”

“We won’t,” Alan replied smoothly. “Who wouldn’t want to pass up on this?” They were both overlooking the grand white Ferry Building across them in the distance, still behind a pleasant row of stout plump palms.

And he was right. A small voice, soft and thin, pleaded “Excuse me, sorry,” as she nudged her way past Serge’s shoulder while he hunched over the railing. He was gaping at the encounter, and looking to Alan they were on their way, following the trail of the girl, now in gray platforms and white jeans, across to the white tower of the Ferry Building. They almost lost her, when the crosswalk turned to a red hand, but being like any other city dweller were not undermined and hastily ran across the street past the skaters and MBX bikers that crowded their way. They managed to catch up as she slipped through the doors into the market. She was a few heads in front, amongst the sea of people turning to the left where she slipped into a Mexican restaurant.

She embraced and kissed at the young man who waited at the front.

Alan’s thoughts stopped. Everything he hoped for, planned out—there was no use to any of it. The note card had been nothing. He never knew what came of it, or didn’t care anymore. He and Serge stood still in their tracks, staring in amazement at the unnoticing couple. They saw the two get seated at a window booth, the man helping Madama off with her coat; she wore the most simple but stunning red cotton blouse with a huge bow at the waist, and a loose long string of pearls that dipped at her navel. She still had yet to smile at the young man, but regardless looked brightly but blankly at her companion seated across from her, talking of something wonderful that she was so attentive to listen.

They headed straight outside onto the platform. Clothed tables lined the back windows of the Ferry Building, tourists and people on bikes ran up and down the dock, some taking a seat on steel black benches dowsed in seagull feces. The devastated Serge ran up to the embossed railing that blocked the edge of the dock from the murky dark water below. He leaned over, eyes closed, breathing heavily.

“Fuck, fuck!” he nearly cried.  “Who the hell was that?”

Alan turned around instinctively. She was looking out the restaurant window, scanning the views of the people and seagulls and the murky water, before looking his way. Alan felt weird in her gaze, tensely turning his head away out towards the ferry boat just departing. Yet he turned it back, daring to look straight into her blues.

And she smiled so warmly at him.

Union Square

Francisco,

if there's one touristy spot i find a guilty pleasure, it's Union Square off Powell and Market Street. open air, ongoing foot traffic, and the most breathtaking panorama of urban life, it is a pristine spot to find all sorts of inspiration, especially for my writing.

a marvelous little concrete flatland edged on all corners by beautiful architecture and high-rises; Macy's flanks the the south, Tiffany and Co. opposite North, and the majestic Westin St. Francis is just on the western border with its scenic elevators that reach towards the skies and overlook the city. they've always considered you the "Paris of the West," and Union Square adequately supports this. it's romantic, beautiful, anitque-- it's hard not to feel like you're somewhere in Paris, sitting at a café and taking in all these gorgeous moving sights and sounds. yes, thank goodness for Emporio Rulli right on the eastern corner of the square. the coffee is reasonable and decent, a fresh finer taste to casually sip while i scribble in my notepad and examine the details to find a good story within. though overcast, the air is very warm and stiff. i love it all. i love the feeling of art and carefree admiration everyone is giving off. sitting outside on a day like this cannot be rivaled.

i must tell you how truly romantic you are; not be the biggest or most international urban spot in America, but who needs all that? i don't. what you have instead, Francisco, is the laid-back European pace of life and setting that invites its dwellers to act in the same peaceful and beautiful way-- to just laugh and enjoy life, to love it.

Paris

Muni Through North Beach

(ON HOW FERNAND'S PARENTS MET)

Curse the late hours of San Franciscan Thursdays.
He’d always walk down Stockton Street, through the crowded back streets of a bustling Chinatown. Worn small faces, lots of open-air produce, Cantonese, Mandarin— he really couldn’t tell the differences, it all meant the same place. Taking Muni was only for whenever he finished up late at the bar. If he’d chosen a job where sobriety was not mandatory— the bus rides would seem less dreadful if he could indulge in between his breaks.


She hated the awful music blaring through someone’s headphones in the back of the bus. She’d always been warned the treachery of back Muni seats. Her dark eyes scanned the 30, standing lankly and restless. She was taller than most of the other riders that held listless onto the overhead rails. Her coral lipstick upon her chapping lips she pressed tightly together to mute any thoughts she supposed were about to escape. She never liked talking. But it was best she conversed as much as she could— hoping to improve her English. At that moment she was just thinking to ask the smaller man in sweats if she’d be able to sit. He’d been on his cell phone for almost twenty minutes of the ride now. She remained standing hopelessly.

And He was just coming onto the bus, jostling through the bulging persons at the front and coming up against Her.

It was sometime in late August, 2011. She was French, he an Argentinian. Sweet strangers in an exciting subtle little world that didn’t quite feel American. And here José and Marie were cursing the late hours.

She put Arctic Monkeys’ “Cornerstone” on her heaphones to drown out all sounds. He could hear it through all the commotion. It wasn’t his favorite album, but he didn’t know anyone who would pass on that sultry sentimental song. He nudged closer without her noticing. He didn’t think much of her— just the tune. He appreciated her in the least, for having picked such a great band.

Then he smelled her hair. A loose fraying blonde bun wound at the nape of her neck where a rayon teal scarf was pedantic around her shoulders. It was Lavender, he was sure of it. His ears were finely tuned having heard “Conerstone,” his scent could not possibly dissapoint.

She was turning around, positioning herself so that her fringe faux-leather shoulder bag wouldn’t be up against the little bumbling girl on the seat to her right. An headphone fell out in this attempt, and as it swung out of her right ear it flicked José right below his brow.

Albeit accents, she pardoned herself like crazy and he smiling and assuring no offense. It was a little entertaining spectacle for few, rather unnoticed by all. That’s how Muni was— any oddity was a natural occurrence. And while he smiled gently, he glanced into her dark eyes. She was terribly confused and blushing.

Marie saw his eyes too. Still and green, like glass. He had a funny accent. Perhaps he was the only other one on that bus with one, too. In a swift second she was able to savor the smiles his mouth formed when gaping open with kind words, assuring her now that he shouldn’t have stood too close. He was saying now something about Arctic Monkeys— through his congenial voice there was nothing to apologize about anymore.

And now they laughed about the late hours, bartering mutual pleasantry in their brightening faces, of that fogged, cold Thursday.

Matching Half Café

Francisco,

it's strong, this chocolate blend. still tastes like coffee to me--oh wait, there it is! no wonder it's described as a "hint."
the sun's warm, and it shines down on my back sitting at the bar. the plywood stool matches perfectly with this sleek and simple interior; it makes this corner lot feel really spacious, and comforting too, with a vase whose flowers colorfully indicate the season. not too many people inside, but there's of course the occasional parent walking in with a child to get juice or a couple just out of class from USF a few blocks away. on the benches outside, the young raggedy threesome of painters have just finished their job at a Victorian up the hilly side of Baker and are settling down a bit for laughs and a second round of PBR.



i wouldn't say there's regulars, everytime i've been here there's always new faces. maybe the new cash register scares everyone-- even my first time here i was quite intimidated by swiping my debit card on the side of the iPad and getting a receipt via text message. i come to a coffee shop to escape the fast-pace of life outside the walls, because something about a hot cup of coffee or tea just sets life right, sets your mind at ease to just relax and step back to look around yourself. so it's funny that Matching Half should have such a contraption! it's any easier, it's stressful!

 

but still i come. i do homework, i relax. i read the other day, and tomorrow i'll probably write. or nothing. people alone are something to do, watch. the baristas are chatty and have their hair braided or cropped short. i give props to their music selection, Death Cab right now after a fast-tempo White Stripes. everyone seems to not mind. i've always taken a liking to cafes that feel like a bar. at these kinds of coffeehouses, you come for enjoyment and not work, and you can feel it in the room. for starters, the bar seating, overlooking the shelves stacked high with wine and mugs. and don't forget the shameless placement of Sight Glass coffee grounds on every inch of the counters and in between. it's all a bit pricy, but every drink's worth it, this choclate blend too. but it was the hot chocolate that changed my mind-- only the finest and thickest i've tasted like no where else! sometimes the Mexican Cokes just do the trick.
it's the quintissential corner coffeeshop for the neighborhood, the usual hidden gem whose twin you can find in almost every other little neighborhood, like Cup-O-Joe on Hayes or Four Barrel in the Mission. but Matching Half is mine; it's close, convenient, and very unique, quiet. it keeps to itself, here and ready to entertain or to nod and smile when you're just passing by. that's the beauty of you, Francisco, for just this sprawl of local mom and pops on every other street, and somehow they all thrive without serious competition against each other. how do you manage that, Francisco? how do you make the smallest of dreams, be it giving the cafes business or the people of the City a fine and heartfelt place to meet and drink, be possible?

i cool this next sip and toast to you,

Paris

Divisadero

That public chalkboard there, tacked to the ratty sallow planks of that vacant shop, it got Tommy all excited. She was taken there after the quick lunch at Popeyes up Divis, she sure was famished and could eat anything. She wrote her name first and moved aside for Tommy to write his with a lump of blue chalk from the wire basket. He bolded his name under the huge D I C K S another wandering dissident scribbled in red. They tied the names together with a +.


Tommy’s decent now. Works by the docks for an espresso machine packer near the West Oakland tracks. Pays the $925 for his place off of I-680, and makes sure the pantry’s stalked with Yerba Matte for the sensitive roommates. He’s got his third flimsy notepad from the 99 cent place to keep him company on his commute to West Oakland. When he reaches that destination he wonders if it’s the real thing. If he should still keep onward until the City.



He’s writing nonstop those messy love letters stapled in the red ink to the yellow paper, words she would never know and wouldn’t understand now. Some days Tommy sits in the car thinking he should go on. He’s decent, but he doesn’t understand himself.


That public chalkboard still there, tacked to the ratty sallow planks of that decay, Tommy doesn’t understand why he shouldn’t go forth and see it again. Has she seen it? Did they fade?


Tommy’s decent now.


She’d not understand now.


And what it means to stay the same now, seeing if the names of that golden past still in dust, still + hand in hand? Decent Tommy, these things do you understand?

Secret Places on Hyde, and Lombard Street

  Francisco and father were walking out from Swensen’s, the faded corner ice cream parlor that offered one of Francisco’s favorites: Swiss orange chip. He ordered two single cake cones of the treat, so that his father could taste a dream.

            “What this one called?” he asked his son with a thick Spanish accent, picking at the flavor by smacking his tongue between his wide lips. He found the concept of the flavor more remarkable than the tangy richness itself.

            “Swiss orange chip, Papà.” Francisco told him three times already.

            They were on some cold concrete steps heading down the hill on Filbert, eating the cones and looking up to the sky just clearing into a hazy cream of blue. Father admired it. His eyes scanned overhead wide and fearful, like a child in the most blissful state with their favorite treat and underneath a most beautiful and wordless banner—the sky didn’t need words to say anything.

            “Is something, ah,” he said after finishing the cone, looking to his son. “Can you see the sky so big as this at work, Francisco?”

            Francisco groaned at the mentioning of the garage. “I’m inside most of the time,” he spoke flatly.

            “It is the most beautiful place if it has this sky,” father went on.

            “It’s whatever.”
            “Ah? Job is everything!”
            “It’s just work. Which would remind me,” Francisco started to stand, “we need to get back to auntie’s so I can be on time.” He stood over his father impatiently, as the elder and rough-faced gentleman too got up, but stalled to look up into the sky one more time. “In this one place,” he went on, smiling to his son, “I knew there is no place like this for my Francisco.”
His son smiled a little. Now they walked back to Filbert and down the road, where the wind was no more, and the air was still, the streets staying quiet. Francisco’s father was none of these things. Like the names of the crossing streets they were passing, he seemed out of place but somehow he felt like he’d been up and down this hill for ages.

            “Delgado,” Francisco’s father started to read as continued down, “Green. Rus-sell. Paci-fic. Green-which. How do these streets get their names, Francisco?”
            “Don’t know.”
            “They all don’t sound very American.”

            “They probably weren’t. The names come from people.”
            “Oh! Unique.” He stopped to look into the windows of two businesses side by side—a chandeliered plush-furnished corner restaurant and its neighbor The Missing Sock, a small but clean Laundromat. “They probably good businessmen. Made in America. You think you make me proud and get a street, my son?”

            “Anything goes, Papà.” To this Francisco’s father whistled happily. He walked on, thinking over in his head of the dream, the one he wanted for his son, Caracas-born now American-bred, thanks to Francisco’s father working hard to locate his half-sister in America and getting his son out of that dried-out, dead land where dreams were seldom. Now he couldn’t help but see success everywhere in this tiny spot in such a golden city—the dreams of America all strung along this thin street with ancient cable cars running below, and lush bobbed trees above.

            “Son,” he began, a block away from the bus that would take them down to Auntie Lorenza’s, “Was there that street around here? The one they say goes what? Zig-zag, eh?”
            Francisco laughed at his father, looking down to pull out a fraying string that was sticking out from his name sewn into his dusty navy mechanic uniform. “We don’t have time for Lombard, Papà. It’s the opposite end of the street and I’ve really got to get back. I’ll take you another time, huh?”

            His father lowered his brow. “I only just got here. First day in America, and I want to see the life and city of my only child. Want to see all now.”

            “Christ, I gotta make it to my shift. It’s Wednesday, the busiest it gets is today. Maybe have auntie come show you on Friday?” But his father’s face only cared for Lombard Street—seeing Lombard Street with his only son. “Please, c’mon Papà,” he went on, “another time, please.”

            The red cable car was just passing so that Francisco could give his father two in one on the spot—a ride on the city’s most prestigious and beloved transportation, to a place Francisco’s father had seen one too many times on postcards sent from his son. The world met at the crooked ends there on Lombard. German, Japanese, French, English, Southern—and Spanish. Spanish was seldom seen; Francisco had been here enough to know that. His father seemed to have known that too.

            “Are we lucky, my son?” he was saying. “I hear no other Spanish. Lucky ones, us. We are representing?”

            They looked out to the Bay in the distance, and the rising of tiny squares of Victorians ascending the neighboring hill in its foreground. “It’s weird here,” his son finally said. “We look like tourists.”
            “Nothing wrong, Francisco,” his father said rather jolly. “We—you live—here and they, they will never come back for a long time, like me. I do not know why this is strange to you. It is a beautiful road.”

            “I’ve seen all I’ve seen of it,” Francisco replied. He looked down to his name on his uniform, thinking restlessly of how much trouble he was sure to be in. “Okay, Papà, let’s go.”

            Papà had fled the scene. He stood on the other side of Lombard now, waving to his son to join. Doing so, Francisco saw he had some sort of camera in his hand. In the weak loose English he shared with everyone around them, Francisco’s father had offered his services to photo-taking. The young French couple who owned the Polaroid had just posed and now was waiting for the return of their camera. “Wait, son,” Francisco’s father said to him, “I ask for a picture of us, real quick.”

            “Oh, Papà, Christ!”

            In the image captured on the flimsy square, just produced seconds later, Francisco looked less pleasing than his father, who was beaming with delight at this opportune moment captured. Even now, as his father held the photo to the sun, he smiled so widely that his son could see the badly crooked teeth of his father for the first time. Not only were they offset, but dull and there were two missing in a corner of the grin. Francisco wondered at how he’d manage to bring Papà to California—it didn’t really matter, not anymore. It was just a good thing to see such a smile, one that said so much without actually speaking.

            “My first property of mine in America, Francisco! Look at how handsome you are. Make me proud.”  His father handed him the photo. Francisco sighed at his features, lighter in skin to his father, clean shaven and tall. He looked refined, even in a mechanic’s suit—but he didn’t look half as glad as the darker and rough-faced older man at his side.

            He looked around once more. It was here the world met at the crooked ends of Lombard. It was almost one in the afternoon, hours before the tourists and curious pedestrians and obnoxious traffic would recede. One in the afternoon, and his shift was at one-thirty. His father looked too, the grin beginning to diminish. “We better get you to work then,” he said.

            Francisco’s father didn’t realize that his son was walking them further up the street, which would soon descend towards Fisherman’s Warf. Francisco tapped his father lightly on his bulgy jean jacket, a little more lighthearted as he spoke. “I’m feeling thirsty; let’s say you and I go get ourselves something to drink.”
            “Drink right now?”

            “Your first good drink, on me, in America. It’s called an Irish coffee. It’s the right thing to have coming out here, tell me if you like it.”
            “But work?” His father was getting the picture now.

            Francisco smiled, though nothing like his father’s. “The guys at the shop don’t know what they’re missing.”

            He saw Papà’s horrible teeth again as the man broke into short-lived laugher. Francisco’s father looked down into the Polaroid he clung to ardently. Under that blue sky the world met at the crooked ends of Lombard, and at the end of the day it collapsed, filling with dreams that became the many streets of San Francisco.

Shit San Franciscans say

cheers to that :)
it seems more hipsterish San Francisco but doesn't mean i actually HAVEN'T heard these sort of things being said.