“We’re so lucky to be here during Fleet Week,” we overhear someone say.
Maybe it’s just because we’re back in a major city after being out in the woods, but it feels like San Francisco is great for eavesdropping.
Walking down the main drag on Lombard passing rooftop parties and clubs with lines down the block, we hear clips of travel plans, recounts of fights, and group polls of highs and lows of the day so far.
Tomorrow when I’m walking from our hotel in the Marina District out to Fort Point under the bridge, I’m keeping pace with a woman talking to a friend on the phone. “Literally, all she had was 6 bottles of tequilla, a jug of mixer, and then 12 jars of Tostitos queso. Not even chips! Yeah… That’s a Target in Minneapolis for you…I know, I do love that queso.”
The concierge at our hotel looks and sounds like Michael J. Anderson, of Twin Peaks fame. We’re too early to check in, but he’s welcoming and ready with all sorts of advice on how to spend our time until 3 pm.
He motions to us to come around behind the desk to look at a map with him. We’re leaning over his shoulders and he’s like a general sharing a battle plan, giving us the full rundown of the city and the neighborhood.
“It’s seven miles by seven miles. We’re here on Greenwich. Up on this hill behind us is where all the tech bros live. Be careful when you’re picking a restaurant because they come down here to eat, so some places are easily $900, $1,000 a meal. Now over here is North Beach…”
We step away only remembering a quarter of what he said, but feeling grateful nonetheless.
“And of course you know it’s Fleet Week,” he adds.
We do not.
He’s excited to tell us. “It’s an annual exhibition of the Navy and Coast Guard, only this year, you know, with the government shutdown, none of them are getting paid so they’re not here. No Blue Angles. But the Canadian Air Force is here, so it should still be a good show.”
We venture down through a couple of lovely parks he recommended, where the views are top notch, then toward Fisherman’s Wharf.
Here in the final days of the journey, I am fully dressed like a tourist, so I fit right in. With my sunglasses and bright blue Patagonia sling across my new “California Redwoods” tee featuring a cartoon smiling Bigfoot. When we’re facing the sun, I put on my Arkansas MFA Oil hat to really complete the look.
We wade through the crowd and tents and booths selling lemonade and official Fleet Week Merch.
We catch a glimpse of Alcatraz off in the distance then turn south, which from here is uphill and make our way through more parks and neighborhoods, North Beach, Chinatown, Nob Hill. Every 5 to 10 minutes, jets tear through clear sky. Later I’ll learn this group is called the Canadian Snowbirds.
We’re outside at a little wine cafe when they buzz directly overhead and the umbrellas we’re sitting under lift up and we each grab one to keep them from floating away.
“We’re so lucky to be here during Fleet Week,” I say.
Later at dinner, our server asks if we caught the show. We both look at her blankly, then realize she means the air show.
“Oh, not really,” I say. “But also it was kind of impossible to miss.”
I don’t know what I can say about San Francisco apart from it’s really pretty. I’m quite taken with the angles, and shapes, and colors. The amount and variety of parks and trees and flowers.
In the morning, Eric heads off for a business meeting, and we plan to meet up (epically) later at Alamo Square Park.
My mission this is to walk to the Golden Gate Bridge.
Heading west on Lombard, I first hit the Palace of Fine Arts. Having seen this landmark in probably a dozen films and tv shows, I’m expecting it to feel a little phoney, like a set piece. But it’s actually quite arresting.
The sculptures of women in Greco-Roman drapery that top the columns are not standing proudly. Rather, they’re turned away from you. Almost slumped over like they’re peering down inside of a box like a tomb. I wonder what they can see, if their eyes are even open.
I read later they’re often called the Weeping Women and that the palace itself, built originally in 1915 for the Pan-American Intermational Exposition, was meant to call to mind ruins of empires past and designed to make the viewer feel separated from the celebratory atmosphere of the expo.
Walking along the beach toward Fort Point it starts to get hot. Chasing the waning gibbous moon, my back is to the sun, but think it would probably be smart to put on my hat anyway.
I reach into my bag and don’t feel it. I stop and inspect the pocket more thoroghly but it’s not there. I zip up the bag and keep walking, then stop a minute later and check again, even though I know it’s not there and have a feeling it’s gone for good.
Part of me thinks this is the karmic toll for stealing rocks and shells from the shores of the Pacific. Or the price of my very good fortune to be on this trip in the first place.
I text Eric to ask if my hat’s in the car. Negative. I say I might head back and ask at the hotel, but he’s already checked the room and asked at the front desk. It’s not there.
“Damn. Ok, TY for checking! I must have left it in one of the parks yesterday.”
I don’t tell Eric the hat belonged to my dad, though he would understand. One trip to Austin we did a Day of the Dead dérive in honor of both of our dads, Dev and Dave. We ended it down at the water, each dropping a little token that belonged to one of them in with a plunk. A way to remember by letting go.
This is something like that, I think. And keep walking.
Still, the loss and the heat have me feeling disconnected. I walk by the woman talking about tequilla and Tostitos queso from the Target in Minneapolis.
Closer to the water, I pass a grandfather and his young grandson dodging the waves as they come in and snatching up shells as they go out. “There’s another one,” the grandfather says.
“Another one and another one,” the grandson says proudly putting a muscle shell into a Ziplock bag the grandfather holds. “They just keep coming.”
Signs warn about coyotes, but it’s probably not the time of day to see one.
A little closer to the fort, I stop to take a photo of the nearing bridge, and then realize there’s a hawk perched up on the chimney of whatever historic outbuilding.
The sharp sheen of his beak, seemingly picking at prey, settles my heart a bit. A feeling like nothing matters and every small thing matters very much.
When I finally make it up through the fort and under the skeleton of bridge, I feel the relief of the shade and the cool air coming off the bay. A pelican swoops by and I spot a sea lion floating lazily. I think about my dad, who spent a few years in the Navy, and I wonder if Fleet Week ever brought him here.
Drained from the walk, I take a Lyft back toward the hotel. I go to one coffee shop that’s closed, and another that has a line out the door, so I decide to head up to Alamo Square early.
I walk a few blocks down Beach street to Fillmore and lean against a fire hydrant to wait for the 22 bus. When it shows up it’s empty. I tap my credit card, but the fare machine makes an angry noise back at me. The driver says not to worry. I ask if she’s sure, and say I have cash. She says the old cash fare machine’s not working and again says “Don’t worry about it,” and waves me on in. I thank her and head toward the back.
The next stop is on Lombard and 15 or 20 people get on. A few more stops and it’s packed as we head up the hill. I’m surprised the brakes can handle stopping on the incline to let people on and off. I accidentally pull the cord a stop too early and it’s a steep block to climb up to Grove Street, where I head west up to the park.
It’s a stunner. Paths lined with palms and Montery cyprus leading up to the top of a hill that looks down on the north bay.
People are walking their dogs, playing tennis, picnicking, or just lounging with their eyes trained on the sky.
From here, I kind of get the appeal of Fleet Week.
Waiting in line for the public bathroom, I can’t help overhearing the women ahead of me.
“We live in a very beautiful city.”
“I know, I need to remember to come to this park more often. I’m adding it to a list of places to go if Alex ever actually visits.”
“When do you think that would be?”
“I dunno, like a million years from now. He texted me the other day, so I do at least know he is alive.”
This time it’s Eric who has trouble finding me in the park up on the hill. But after a few confused phone calls we spot each other and hug and my eyes well up with tears again. We soak up another hour of late afternoon sunshine before heading to the airport, and I’m surprised I’m not more melancholy. I should maybe feel something like a sadness at the trip coming to an end. A grief for everything that has already ended. But the bittersweet, fleeting nature of it all feels kind of sublime from here. There’s a light breeze and I feel just fine.
