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weofodthignen Jun. 24th, 2016 11:28 am)
weofodthignen Jun. 24th, 2016 11:28 am)I took the train into San Francisco again. The forecast was for 70 degrees, so I wore unbleached (basically white) painter's pants and a floppy purple T-shirt. In the event the weather forecasters were on crack again and it was at least 80. My face is now deep red and both my arms are brown.
I walked into downtown along 2nd Street, having to weave my way constantly around hordes of people, many with dogs in tow (why do San Franciscans walk so slowly?) passing alleys that reminded me of Duluth
—19th-century ports both—and noticing a Smurf looking out from the CNET offices.
I'm not sure whether he was a staffer on break, had been banished, or what.
My mission this time was hunting houses, so I spent much of the afternoon hiking up and down hills in Presidio Heights and Pacific Heights. The occasional staggering view
and some daunting streets.
I drew the line at the block of Broderick where the roadway turns into a corkscrew driveway and both sidewalks head down at what appears to be more than 45 degrees; although the two ladies with a stroller and toddlers headed right down into the abyss. Meanwhile, the casually good Tudor pile at the streetcorner
—which, like most of the interesting buildings I passed, was not in the architectural guidebook I was using for maps—was under noisy renovation. It seemed as if at least one house on every block was. I even saw a front yard being removed to create a garage, proving the sad point that every year more of the Victorians lose their bottom floors. I'd have taken a photo—it was interesting how the earth, tree roots and all, was being sucked up for sanitary removal—but of course there was no good photographic angle around the truck.
They weren't my quarry, but I couldn't resist snapping a few photos of Victorians; they always seem to wave at me:
(look at those miniature oriel windows on either side of the doorway!)
(look at that Tudor garage extension!)
Then I did some uninformed mucking about with the transit. For much of the trolleybus ride down Divisadero to Castro, I was sitting facing backwards opposite a gentleman who had a black-headed, white-bodied standard poodle between his feet. The dog set about licking my sandals and my white pants. Otherwise he was remarkably well behaved.
My last stop was Ocean Beach, where I had to blót on an overlook rather than at the water's edge because the beach was trying to come up over the sea wall.
Then I had an interminable wait for the N streetcar back. One finally came into sight, but the driver then took a break while it sat in the loop at the terminus. When it at last took on us waiting passengers, it dawdled its way downtown as usual, becoming crowded—I wound up with a lady sitting next to me whose little daughter, sitting on the side-facing seat in front of us, spent most of the ride flopping all over her knees and mine—and then sat in an underground station for an age. So I missed my train back and had to wait over an hour for the next. I got a second 6" veggie sub from Subway to be my dinner, and managed to spill onions and jalapenos on my white pants. Then the train was of course packed; they have changed rolling stock yet again and almost all the seats are paired and grouped and I wound up with a gentleman beside me and his two little boys facing me, one of whom kicked my white pants almost the whole way, while the other had crying jags. Also the train was badly delayed by staff having to manipulate the wheelchair lift at two stations. At least no one threw themselves under it this time.
I walked into downtown along 2nd Street, having to weave my way constantly around hordes of people, many with dogs in tow (why do San Franciscans walk so slowly?) passing alleys that reminded me of Duluth
—19th-century ports both—and noticing a Smurf looking out from the CNET offices.
I'm not sure whether he was a staffer on break, had been banished, or what.
My mission this time was hunting houses, so I spent much of the afternoon hiking up and down hills in Presidio Heights and Pacific Heights. The occasional staggering view
and some daunting streets.
I drew the line at the block of Broderick where the roadway turns into a corkscrew driveway and both sidewalks head down at what appears to be more than 45 degrees; although the two ladies with a stroller and toddlers headed right down into the abyss. Meanwhile, the casually good Tudor pile at the streetcorner
—which, like most of the interesting buildings I passed, was not in the architectural guidebook I was using for maps—was under noisy renovation. It seemed as if at least one house on every block was. I even saw a front yard being removed to create a garage, proving the sad point that every year more of the Victorians lose their bottom floors. I'd have taken a photo—it was interesting how the earth, tree roots and all, was being sucked up for sanitary removal—but of course there was no good photographic angle around the truck.
They weren't my quarry, but I couldn't resist snapping a few photos of Victorians; they always seem to wave at me:
(look at those miniature oriel windows on either side of the doorway!)
(look at that Tudor garage extension!)
Then I did some uninformed mucking about with the transit. For much of the trolleybus ride down Divisadero to Castro, I was sitting facing backwards opposite a gentleman who had a black-headed, white-bodied standard poodle between his feet. The dog set about licking my sandals and my white pants. Otherwise he was remarkably well behaved.
My last stop was Ocean Beach, where I had to blót on an overlook rather than at the water's edge because the beach was trying to come up over the sea wall.
Then I had an interminable wait for the N streetcar back. One finally came into sight, but the driver then took a break while it sat in the loop at the terminus. When it at last took on us waiting passengers, it dawdled its way downtown as usual, becoming crowded—I wound up with a lady sitting next to me whose little daughter, sitting on the side-facing seat in front of us, spent most of the ride flopping all over her knees and mine—and then sat in an underground station for an age. So I missed my train back and had to wait over an hour for the next. I got a second 6" veggie sub from Subway to be my dinner, and managed to spill onions and jalapenos on my white pants. Then the train was of course packed; they have changed rolling stock yet again and almost all the seats are paired and grouped and I wound up with a gentleman beside me and his two little boys facing me, one of whom kicked my white pants almost the whole way, while the other had crying jags. Also the train was badly delayed by staff having to manipulate the wheelchair lift at two stations. At least no one threw themselves under it this time.