Everyone has a story to tell when they return from vacation. Like, "I caught a fish this big..." I knew I would have something to write for my Adventures of Captain Imperfecto blog to share with you, my reader. So sit back, relax, and let me tell you about this walk in the downtown area of San Francisco...
Since I arrived in California, my dad kept telling me, "You have to go on the Trolley car; it's a must-do in San Francisco. When in Rome, son, When in Rome!"
"But dad, you've never been to San Francisco or Rome."
"That doesn't matter!" his voice shouted through my cell phone.
After days of wandering through the city streets of San Francisco, I thought I knew how to get around. I was becoming one with the city folk regulars until I found myself lost while trying to find a local movie theater. I was on a mission to see Sky Fall, but James Bond I am not, so I failed this particular mission.
I was tired and hungry, and my feet hurt when I found myself face to face at the Trolley-turn-about near Market Street. My dad's voice rang in my head, like a whisper over my shoulder, "do it," his voice said.
So I ponied up the 6 dollars (one way) and took the ride on the Rice-a-Roni streetcar named Desire.
I jumped on board among the other tourists, who burst through the heavy chain dividers by leaping over them with all the grace of a track star in training for the hurdle event in the Olympics. They ran with vigor towards the old-fashioned metal trolley car.
My ride definitely had a classic appeal to it. It looked like an old train caboose with outside seating. The benches were a mustard yellow. Parallel to them were poles affixed to the side so riders, primarily tourists, could hang on to them with dear life and make their best impression of a trash man. The mostly red color allowed the trolley to stand out from the rest of the public transportation.
I could work my way up front, where I was gripping the white-coated steal-made bar tightly, waiting to hang off the edge of a perfectly well-insulated moving vehicle. Ordinarily, I would have better judgment, but I was on vacation, so when in Rome, right? Although, this wasn't Rome.
The gripping pole was cold because the night air was a chilly 40 degrees. I wasn't wearing gloves because I live in Florida and obviously don't own any. So, I toughed out the weather because I wanted to make my dad proud. I gripped tightly as the Trolley Car driver rang the bell twice.
"Ding, ding."
The car begins to roll upwards on the track towards the main corridor. The metal track the wheels ride on is embedded into a cobblestone ground. We made our way towards Union Square. The main area is where people congregate and enjoy the Times Square impression this city offers. The night was beautiful. The crowds were full of life. The streets spoke as we rolled on through the glitz of the lighted signs and through the thickness of the voices that rang out from the hoards of people. The only thing that was louder was the friction from the metal on the metal as we made our way through this crowded area.
My dad was right. It was worth hanging on to this trolley car. My feet were firmly planted on the 1-foot ledge welded to the frame's side. I loosened my arms and allowed my torso to move into the outside space. I jammed my head out in the wind, enjoying the crisp air passing around my 6-foot 2-inch frame. Now I see why dogs love this kind of freedom. I sprang on my knees like a baseball player in the batter's box. I was having fun.
The car driver was in the middle of the trolley, working the ride with a large brake handle in the center. He would use this brake to slow the cart down or stop on an "x" on the road asphalt. It was the launching point every time we had to start forward again.
As we moved away from the city, the car began to thin out as people got off at stops along the way. With an empty seat in front of me, I shifted my hips and took a seat with much relief to my knees. I still had a great view from where I was sitting. The night was going so well.
The trip rolled on, and we began to pick up more passengers throughout this golden city.
People clamored for better seating, but most jockeyed for the white poles and their chance to hang out of the San Francisco Cable Car. And why not? It's all about the experience. And who doesn't want the experience? Hell, my dad is 3,000 miles away and wants the experience.
As we rolled on to the next scheduled stop, a man, about 5' 6", worked his way to where I was sitting, and the white pole mounted right in front of me.
His hair was trapped in a 50's time warp. He was still sporting a flat top or buzz cut. His thick-framed glasses reminded me of something the singer Buddy Holly would wear. He was in his late 30s and was true to his coolness, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. His port belly was protruding from the bottom of his shirt, and his hairy flesh was exposed and practically sitting in my lap. I know now what it is like to be pregnant.
"Yahoo!" he shouts as the trolley moves forward, "yeah!"
The conductor rings the trolley bell again as we move to the next stop. My port belly friend still squealing with delight as the wind bounced off his flat hair.
"Come on, trolley, yeah!" he announces out loud while he bounces his heavy torso on his knees, grooving to the sound of the steel wheels rolling down the track.
"Yeah, baby!"
The trolley made a stop in the club district. Scantily dressed women are moving about and through the traffic, causing delays for all the cars.
"Hey baby, yeah, that's what I'm talking about," the trolley rider yells, tilting his head and peering his eyes over the top of his thick lenses, double black framed glasses.
"Yeah, I'm right here," he says. In case the women overlooked him. "I'm a winner, lovely things," he announced with all the confidence of an Adonis.
In his excitement, his belly would flop off my lap; at least, I was hoping it was his belly. He could hardly contain his excitement as it began to boil up from the bowels of his enormous stomach. I sat in my seat, trapped. The bulging bowling ball would push my back down whenever I tried to get up. Then my phone rang.
"Chris!"
"Yeah, Dad, what's up?" I asked.
As my dad spoke, my fat Buddy Holly clone shrieked for joy! "What the hell was that?" my dad said with concern.
“A gladiator dad, a gladiator. You know how it is when you are in Rome."
"Ding, ding."
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Awesome "When in Rome" story. :D
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