ROSS THORBY: SEA FEVER Aaaah, San Francisco. The city of free love, hippies and cable cars and where it was once said that if you remembered the 60s, you weren’t there. Our ship had entered the port at 3.30pm and not in the customary wee small hours of early morning because we’d been delayed by stormy weather. The result was that our visit would be cut short in order to keep to our rigorous schedule. There seemed to be a mysterious cloud floating above the alcoves, bars and restaurants along the waterfront where we berthed. It hovered over the streets even invading, I discovered, public transport. A silent gaseous cloud, that one immediately realised, should not be inhaled too deeply, or the sickly sweet aroma could result in your drifting into a dreamy oblivious state. Although 'pot' is not legal under United States Federal Law, it is now legal under State Law and now the fetid smell follows you everywhere you go in the city. To take advantage of the few hours of daylight left, I fled the ship hurriedly and slipped quickly through the dazed crowds in search of a taxi, or a train, or a cable car, or even (I was getting desperate) a Segway. Traversing the streets of Chinatown, a cab driver heading in the opposite direction saw me flagging frantically and made a handbrake turn that would have been the envy of any Queen Street hoon on a Friday night. The reason for his extraordinary driving skills would soon become apparent when I innocently hopped into the back seat to suddenly catch the now familiar, but unmistakable, pungent aromatic smoke curling up from the ashtray beside him. As we drove haphazardly through the city’s gridlocked streets, 'Ziggy', my dishevelled 'driver du jour' ranted on about the unfairness of the Israeli/Palestinian occupation, the unalienable rights of the Irish and, of all things, the pros and cons of the Reagan administration. Even though it had long since passed, I would suggest that Reagan was the last time this vociferous junkie was conscious of anything other than where his next hit was coming from. In fits and starts, the erratic traffic seeming to encourage him to spout even more babble, we negotiated through the streets until an accident ahead brought us to a halt, just minutes from the Castro. The Castro, so close - and yet - so far...
66 PONSONBY NEWS+ September 2016
Fortunately mere traffic conditions and accidents weren’t going to deter my driver who careened along the footpath past the obstruction, and back again onto the safer road surface. Breathing a sigh of relief, I was eventually dropped off in front of one of Castro’s finest bars. But wait. Was I hallucinating? On one side of the entrance a punk rock couple were loudly arguing and on the other stood a completely naked man. Starkers. Full Monty frontal even. The bouncers in the doorway were engrossed in their phones seemingly oblivious to the bizarre drama unfolding in front of them. Stark, bollocky naked, he stood proudly on the sidewalk, flauntingly displayed, daring you to take a look, just, well... daring. Unhappily for him, however, the passing parade completely ignored him, being far too engrossed in the warring couple on the other side of the entrance to show the faintest interest. Minutes later (I swear I wasn’t looking for that long) four police vehicles screamed to a halt, a posse of officers threw the arguing man to the ground, handcuffed the woman and threw them both into the back of their paddy wagon before screaming off into the night. Again the nude guy was completely ignored. I felt it was time to move on. The other streets of San Francisco seem to be just as outlandish. Inhabited by a collection of colourful characters that appear to have stepped straight out of comic books, cartoons and 1970s TV police dramas and hippies young and old (the kind that drop in and drop out) which add to an atmosphere of a city still clinging firmly to its vestiges of individuality in a country trending in gentrification and sameness. And God help us - Trump. But I will take San Francisco’s distinctive character any time. With time ticking by and our 10pm departure looming, I opted for a quick burger in a burger bar and a beer in a Bear bar before I faced the risk of another taxi ride back to port. Uber this time, I thought. I remember the 60s, because I wasn’t there. (ROSS THORBY) F PN
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