By Eric Swartz
WHAT A TOWN…golden, glittery, and gutsy.
A town built by missionaries, miners, merchants, and misfits; made wealthy by railroaders, bankers, and techies; and made legendary by publishers, poets, musicians, and immigrants. A curious and contradictory mix of sophistication and sophistry, elegance and tawdriness, of staggering fortunes won and lost.
Perched on seven hills, it’s still a boom town with a view.
I wandered onto Pacific Street, where the Barbary Coast once flourished, and where opium dives, dance halls, and parlor houses, full of glamour and vice, separated unwary visitors from their money.
We’re more tolerant and cosmopolitan today, but just as wild and wide-open. We’ve survived political intrigue and a city hall tragedy, the big quake, and a raging fire that destroyed over 500 blocks covering four square miles. We’ll survive the dot-bomb implosion, too, and reclaim the artists’ lofts and warehouses that once graced the SOMA landscape.
Yes, we’re still a quaint and colorful panorama of gleaming bridges, rattling cable cars, stately Victorians, and bustling bistros…a land of enchantment known for its sourdough, not its sour grapes, with a sunset as brilliant as a flaming orange.
Like a watchman on his appointed rounds, the pearly white fog drifts in under the Golden Gate, wafting down sloping hills and winding streets, only to slumber quietly in neighborhood valleys before dissipating over the Bay. The cold sunshine of the city is as invigorating as a morning shower medicating a glorious hangover.
This city knows how to build a ballpark, fly a kite, welcome a newcomer, and celebrate diversity of life. This city has it…in spades. The natives know it, the tourists can feel it, and the expatriates left their heart in it.
God, I love this town.
©2002 Eric Stephen Swartz. All rights reserved.
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