I Left My Heart in San Francisco

We paint our memories in vivid colors across the canvas of life. As the refrains of the song echo in my mind, I can remember so clearly the evening Bill and I walked into our San Francisco hotel, my first time on American soil. A young man at the grand piano in the lobby was playing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco,” and from that moment I fell under its spell. It became one of our two most favorite cities in the world, filled with magic and romance.

What a treat when nephew James invited me to spend the long weekend out there. I don’t think I have ever been spoilt quite like that before. He went over the top, leaving me open mouthed, a big “Wow!” hanging on my lips as each new moment unfolded.

The first pleasure was being met by James and his delightful girlfriend, Dana, at the airport, temperatures cold, a blustery heavy rain falling. But the warmth of the welcome was like a big umbrella. We dodged the showers, laughing in the fun of new discoveries. A noisy, friendly, English-style pub jammed with a wildly eclectic mix shoulder-to-shoulder on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Sharing the umbrella as the rain spattered on the water and boats at anchor at the deserted marina. The hilly streets around Berkeley, intriguing shops lining hip neighborhoods.

Claremont Hotel

The gracious Claremont perched on a tree-covered hillside, presiding in the elegant glory of her colorful history. Exchanging stories of our lives over drinks in P.F. Changs, and then a wondrous meal in the best company, oblivious to the steady rain falling glistening on the lamplit streets.

Next morning James and I visited a local Uniting Methodist Church – his choice for our spiritual nourishment. Discovering the call of God on your life was the theme. God couldn’t have been speaking more plainly. When tears prick my eyes, and escape their retraints to slip down my cheek, I always know the Spirit of God is there. And so He was. In power and tenderness, reaching in to the core.





 

Anything goes in San Fran!

                James’ next treat was an incredible Sunday Jazz Brunch at Scott’s in Walnut Creek. One delicious dish after another. Imagine four different types of Eggs Benedict! Elegant, tasteful, friendly, and mimosas that were mysteriously always full. Then we hopped a ride on BART – the Bay Area Rapid Transit – into San Francisco, and wandered the hilly streets of this fair city.



“Wait here while I talk to someone,” instructed James, glancing at his watch. He chatted to the concierge outside the Hilton Hotel, then led me round the corner and down the hill, stopping beside a red and white mini bus. He pointed to the sign on the back of the bus, grinning broadly. “San Francisco Helicopters” it proclaimed. Oh my gosh! I was speechless. A dream come true to fly over San Francisco Bay.

Our Bell 206 Jet Ranger rose above the airport and flew northward along the western perimeter of the city. Paragliders glinted silver in the afternoon sun, hovering over the cliffs south of Ocean Beach. Flying between 500 and 1000 feet, we admired the neat grids of whitewashed houses, almost able to determine the make and model of cars driving down the road. We flew low over the Presidio on a straight line to the sharp red pylons of the Golden Gate Bridge spanning San Francisco Bay. She was beautiful in the clear California sunshine. And then…what a surprise…we flew under the Golden Gate Bridge, almost skimming the tops of sailboats heeling in the brisk breeze below! Too cool! “Can we do that again?” I begged the pilot, but he shook his head ‘No.’

Then on past Alcatraz, once a formidable prison where all but a few of the handful of inmates who escaped were either shot or drowned in the treacherous, cold waters of San Francisco Bay. We circled low over landmarks in the hilly city by the Bay, Fisherman’s Wharf bustling with tourists, the marina filled with boats from around the world packed in like sardines, A T & T Park - home stadium for the San Francisco Giants, and over the pylons of the Oakland Bay Bridge that links San Francisco with Oakland and Berkeley.

That evening, after the mandatory chilly stroll through Fisherman’s Wharf, we joined the patrons of the Buena Vista, reknowned for its Irish coffees. Would you believe everyone at the bar was drinking Irish coffees? It’s true! And they were the best!

Monday we followed Highway 1 down the California coast, savoring the stunning scenery, quaint coastal towns, steep cliffs, lighthouses, fertile fields of artichokes and bright yellow oilseed rape. As the sun dipped low on the horizon we clambered over rocks along the beach at Pacific Grove, until daylight faded into dusk and the brisk ocean breeze encouraged us to turn for home. A brief stop at Cannery Row in Monterey reminded us of the history of this area, vividly portrayed in John Steinbeck’s novel of the same name.

The weekend was over all too soon. Closeness renewed with nephew James, who had spent a year with us in Tennessee during his teens, and become more like a son. Now a mature young man making his way in the world. Bill would have felt as proud as I did. More memories to add to this city that has always captured my heart.