The Crocker family decides to build a hotel on Union Square and the St. Francis opens its door in 1904, then renovates after the 1906 Earthquake and reopens in 1907.



Self-Portrait in Mercury Glass in the window of Gumps, San Francisco, Black Friday, 28 November 2008

I realize not all of you share the same frisson of discovery I feel whenever 1904 crops up in my wanderings, but even the least inquisitive among you would doubtless find the travel knowledge of my friend Brian impressive, along with his many other prodigious gifts and talents.

"I am taking you for breakfast at an establishment," he announced the morning after Thanksgiving, "where the maitre d'hotel is one hundred and ten years old."

Skeptic that I am, naturally I protested, confident in dismissing this bold exaggeration when no such ancient creature greeted us as we entered Sears Fine Food.  I quickly learned, however, that one more time I had exercised contempt prior to investigation when Brian gestured with a triumphant flourish to the wall covered in framed photographs of celebrities (an all-variety assortment of famous and immortal) posing with what appeared to be the world's oldest man.  Needless to say I promptly sought an explanation from our handsome waiter.  It was true, the young man related.  The famous old fellow had recently passed on to that great restaurant in the sky, but he had indeed been the oldest living employee of this or possibly any other known eatery, continuing in his duties until he was nearly one hundred and ten, give or take a year.

Subsequently satiated from a hearty repast of the justifiably famous pancakes, we emerged into the morning bustle of San Francisco's Union Square, just across the street in fact from the landmark St. Francis, my only regret being that I would never be hungry again, or at least not in time to enjoy lunch at the top of the Neiman Marcus dome, which another dear friend Justin always makes certain to do whenever he finds himself in the city.  

Charting our separate courses outside Macy's, I soon found my way out of the retail shopping frenzy and to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art for the exhibition of the work of the scultptor  Martin Puryear which I thoroughly enjoyed and highly recommend.   There is something very comforting and enchanting in this artist's creations which I think has to do with the smooth polished wood surfaces and deceptively simple shapes that remind me of farm implements and old utilitarian containers -- like being in a slightly surreal dream in a Shaker barn at the turn of the last century.

Later I met up again with Brian for the Memorial for Harvey Milk on the steps of City Hall, about which I've written previously, below and also here.  Still later -- the next morning in fact -- we compared notes on our respective evenings.  While Brian had gone off to make new friends I had gone on my own walkabout from The Castro to the Embarcadero before returning to the hotel to enjoy a good book (the collected writings of radical journalist Andrew Kopkind).

"You are the only man I know," my traveling companion observed as we crossed the bridge to Oakland on our way home, "who can visit San Francisco and not get laid."

"Surely not the only one," I offered, but he remained adamant.

"The only one," he reiterated. 

Given his established track record for accuracy and veracity -- the aforementioned existence of a centenarian maitre d' for example, and the verified truth regarding the excellence of pancakes, the fastest routes about the city and the closest MUNI and BART stops for my requested destinations -- I could not argue the point.

Instead I was reminded of a line the great thespian Charles Ludlum in his widely acclaimed performance as Camille, utters to a would-be lover.  "Traveling light," s/he says, explaining her lack of ardour, and then adds, "No heart."

"In that City by the Bay," I added in what I like to think is a fairly good impression of Tony Bennet, just to cover all the allusions. 

You, of course, know that sometimes the heart isn't really missing, and the seeming lack is but a pose.  Sometimes the heart's desires are carefully stowed for the journey, rolled up like socks in that extra pair of sensible shoes packed at the bottom of your bag.  Or yes, sometimes forgotten and only remembered afterward in a passing reflection, a glimpse partially obscured in a piece of circus mirror, when the speed that light with its burden of the past is traveling momentarily slows, and what is revealed, in the fog and the overcast sky, is a memory of something you left behind.