The Cool Grey City

Seattle, WA
July 21, 2018

(NB: See previous installments here, here, and here).

It has been said that if a cow lies down somewhere in California, a seismologist will know it. Such is the density and sensitivity of the more than 700 seismographs scattered across that quivering state.

At 5:13a on April 18, 1906, the cows did not so much lie down as fall flat…but the seismographs were capturing bigger game. 

The ground at the head of Tomales Bay in Marin County shifted twenty feet that morning. The Crystal Springs Dam, situated south of the City directly atop the offending San Andreas Fault, slid eight feet…yet it held, as it would again during the far weaker 1989 temblor.

The City it served would not be so lucky, and would rue the ruptured pipes that precluded Crystal Springs water from dousing the flames of its burning buildings. 

Aside from the the Flood Building and Mansion, the new St Francis Hotel, Old St Mary’s Church, and a smattering of Telegraph Hill homes sheathed in Chianti-coated towels, few buildings east of the firewall at Van Ness would survive the inferno.

That firewall saved the elaborate Victorians and colorful Edwardian homes that had more recently adorned the Western Addition and Pacific Heights. Tent cities in Golden Gate Park would house refugees from charred areas till the heart of the city could be re-built.

The foghorn that serenaded Tuesday night’s sleep pierced the dawn mist to become our Wednesday morning alarm. 

Stepping onto Baker Street, amid well-intentioned joggers, single-minded businessmen, and leisurely patrons of half a hundred coffee shops, our first destination was the Palace of Fine Arts. 

A glorious Greco-Roman artifact of the 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exhibition that signaled the City’s renaissance, the classical dome and Corinthian colonnade now embrace a small pond and wildlife preserve that are the peaceful remnant of a prior tidal lagoon.

Debris from the 1906 calamity helped fill the remainder of the natural marsh between the Presidio and Ft Mason, becoming the level land we now know as the Marina District. Like a prairie dog in Wyoming, this detritus poked thru the liquified ground during the 1989 quake, even as more modern structures collapsed upon it.

A helpful San Francisco heuristic is to avoid flat terrain near the City’s waterfront…or to grab a helmet and handrail if you don’t. When the earth plays its music, these areas will be the most enthusiastic dancers.

The delightful district does, however, reward its seismic risk. After Tuesday’s petit déjeuner at Le Marais, David and I again rolled the dice on Chestnut Street, with a well-laden sidewalk breakfast at Squat and Gobble.

Heartily fortified with steak, eggs, and a breakfast burrito, we made our way on foot to Union Square.

We strolled through the dissipating fog, past the charming Union Street shops of Cow Hollow, the cafes and antique dealers of upper Polk, up California Street to the crest of Nob Hill, then down its east slopes to settle comfortably for a refreshment at Cafe de la Presse.

Seated at a sunny table along Grant Avenue, I recalled the frequency with which Rita and I once rested our feet at what was then a much smaller version of this charming Parisian bistro.

The pre-quake City was fabulous…and notorious. The antique shops, fine furniture boutiques, and upscale lofts of Jackson Square were once the Barbary Coast bordellos, bars, and boarding houses from which Shanghai Kelly drugged and dragooned unsuspecting recruits as conscripts on under-manned sailing expeditions to the far corners of the world. 

South of the seedy shows along Pacific Avenue, the descendants of which now occupy the Broadway blocks between Columbus and Kearny, entertainment from a higher brow carried the day…and the nights.

Edwin Booth had his start in Sacramento but gained traction in San Francisco, overcoming later association with his tyrannicide brother to become the most famous actor of his time. 

Enrico Caruso brought down the curtain on the old City. The greatest tenor of that (and perhaps of any) age sang Carmen at the Mission Opera House one Tuesday night. 

Early Wednesday morning, the undulating floor of his Palace Hotel room woke him, sent him scrambling to the window, and then to the street so he could witness adjacent buildings tumbling to the ground in a procession his hotel would soon join. 

The Palace Hotel was rebuilt within a couple years, hosting statesmen and dignitaries from that day to this…including Warren Harding, whose final act was to assume the ambient temperature of its Presidential Suite.

More importantly, it endured every temblor the next century tossed its way, providing ample opportunity to enjoy cocktails beneath its stunning glass atrium. 

David and I stopped in for a moment, primarily to check his mouth after a free chocolate sample from the lobby Ghirardelli store helped coax a molar from his relaxed gums.

Having tended the wound, we made our way to City Hall to await Brett and Jennifer as they scurried from Pebble Beach to obtain their marriage license and have me sworn in as officiant prior to the 4p closing. 

As the clock ticked past 3:30 and Brett sent successive texts suggesting later and later arrival times, it became apparent that, like biting your own ear, what they were attempting was simply not possible.

But then, my faith shaken, they rounded the corner of the empty hall and came into view…like the appearance of Our Lady at a remote convent. 

With but ten minutes to spare, we filled and filed forms, raised our right hands, and swore our respective oaths…all while Brett regaled us and the City Hall administrators with video of his drives at Pebble Beach.

Being properly ordained, I took David to meet my parents at L’Ardoise on Noe, a terrific neighborhood French bistro that definitely warrants a return. 

The following morning, as harbingers of a bright day, Rita and Alexander landed as the fog lifted. 

Prior to the wedding, as we awaited our room at the Stanford Court, we joined Molly for lunch in the rotunda of the Neiman Marcus building on Union Square. The upper atrium offers good food, a pleasant internal ambience, and a terrific external view from under the ornate stained glass dome that for a century graced The City of Paris department store. 

After the marriage festivities that afternoon and evening, we woke the next morning and strolled down Powell for what has become something of a traditional breakfast at Sears.

Soon after, Alexander and Rita departed for Walla Walla a day ahead of David and me.

We spent our final afternoon in the City under blue skies, with North Beach and Telegraph Hill our initial destination prior to meeting Brett, Jennifer and the girls at Pier 39. A streetcar carried us to Ghirardelli Square, then returned David and me to the hotel to prepare for our last evening in San Francisco.

It began at the Top of the Mark, where we met Brett, Jennifer, Mom, and Jerry for drinks prior to dinner at Frascati on Russian Hill. 

This cozy Mediterranean restaurant is typical of the charming neighborhood places lining this stretch of Hyde Street. Intimate, with delicious food, good wine, and attentive service, it was a lovely setting for a delightful evening.

A cable car arrived as we stepped from the restaurant. Brett and Jennifer hopped aboard with us for our return to the Stanford Court. They caught another cable car from there, while David and I adjourned to our room in weary anticipation of our pre-dawn flight this morning.

As we peered out the window, fog returned, pulled its misty blanket over the cool, grey City, and applied its damp filter to the lights atop Nob Hill.  

It remained thru the small hours, enveloping us as we rode through the dark, quiet streets to the airport, our regret at having to leave mitigated by the place and people we are going to see…and by being surprised as we boarded our flight that, for the first time, David would have a First Class seat for the journey.

JD