I Left My Heart...in San Francisco

‘…high on a hill, it calls to me. To be where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars and the morning fog will chill the air’

With an opening like that I assume you know where I'm going with this. I left my heart in San Francisco. No I didn't. I never really have to be quite honest. I Left My Heart my mother would croon along with Tony Bennett. Barefooted, I stood on top of her feet my arms clinging around her waist as she led me in a waltz around the kitchen floor. She would be the man and lead, I the Lady and if I held her close enough she would teach me how to dance properly. Dinner was already made, the table set, my older siblings watching TV, we were just waiting for Dad to come home. The meal preheating in the oven ruminated warmth not only around the house but between my mother and myself. The two of us waltzing, swinging and bossanova-ing to whatever hit was currently playing on the oldies station. The dial was always tuned to the oldies and when I say oldies I mean the Golden Oldies! Doris Day's Que sera, sera! Whatever will be will be!', Judy Garland's 'Clang clang clang went the trolley, ding ding ding went the bell, zing zing zing went my heartstrings for the moment I saw him I fell' and Petula Clark's 'When you're alone and life is making you lonely you can always go...Downtown.'

My mother would sentimentally reminisce about how she once lived in San Francisco. She moved there after college at the ripe young age of twenty. Originally from Colorado, her military family parents thought it the best opportunity if she left Travis Air Base where they were currently residing in California and move to Tiburon with her grandparents. Tiburon back in the late 1950's was desolate, nothing but a railroad pier and the small white church, St. Hilary’s that stood alone on the hill. She soon crossed the bay for the city and moved into a women-only residence hotel atop Nob Hill, kitty corner to the Fairmount and Mark Hopkins hotels. She met my father at a church youth group at St. Mark's Lutheran (still standing on the corner of Geary and Franklin); a church that not only survived the great quake of 1906 but the 1988 one as well. This church social group was just a cover though, this young gang spent more time at wacky Luau parties in Pac Heights, cruising Chinatown’s Grant Street in topless convertibles and swinging it Tiki style around the floating band at the Tonga Room than faithfully studying the pages of the Bible. She was employed as a telephone operator and rode the trolley to work every morning to the Pacific Bell building. Her wardrobe consisted of a few skirt suits, all machine sewn and tailored herself. She swore to me that no woman ever dare step out in public without her white gloves, pearls, pillbox hat and 3" heels. As we swayed and hummed together to the music she'd occasionally break out of her trance to gaze down at me and with a sigh full whisper remark "How drastically different times are for you today in comparison."

Many rainy Saturday afternoons I spent parked on the couch mesmerized watching such flicks as Funny Face, April in Paris and My Fair Lady. If by chance left alone (and strictly forbidden to!) I'd sneak into my parent’s bedroom to dig through my mom's attic to try on her skirt suits, hats, gloves and pearls. I'd prop myself on the dresser and pose in front of the mirror practicing my glamour look; a saucy smile, toss of the head and sideways glance. Now, if I spent my early childhood waltzing to the golden oldies, watching Doris Day flicks and playing dress up you can only imagine the fantastical image I dreamed up in my head of what my adult life would be. What would it be like? Well, it would be city sophistication of course darling! Soon enough, I would embark on a 'Roman Holiday' of my own and escape the clutches of suburbia, off to the big city!

Yet the confines of home and suburbia were harder to un-cling myself from than imagined. Lying down on the backyard lawn, my eyes closed to the partially hidden Oregon sun, I daydreamed that somewhere the grass is surely greener than the perfectly manicured turf I was lofting upon. Growing up I was the youngest of four, ridiculously shy and very dependent upon my parents. This baby bird had an incredibly difficult time flying the nest. Whether it was an overnight grade school slumber party or living in a college dormitory, leaving home was emotionally, very difficult for me. Reflecting back I knew I had lived a safe and sheltered adolescence but it proved to be a stumbling block later in my life. It would take much courage and strength for me to one day hit the pavement of the big city.

Regardless of my fears of the unknown world, baby steps grew in to adulthood bounds. Soon after college I caught a chronic case of the travel bug. The disease had me in its grips for over a decade. I’m healthy now but go into remission once a year for three weeks. It all started out with a nine month backpacking jaunt through Europe. My first destination across the pond was to live with my brother in Germany who was working on his doctorate at the time. His air mattress became my home. Dortmund, this quaint Northern German town was my big city training ground and unbeknownst to me my brother was a mad professor who only encouraged my illness. He taught me to study train tables, decipher subway maps, change currency, taste wine, hold my knife and fork properly, order a cup of coffee in any language and navigate myself through muddled, twisting, medieval streets. Soon, those worn and faded maps ended up stuffed in my backpack as I actually willed myself to get lost (it’s the best way to find yourself). I spent the next year and a half working in London and traveling all around Europe having the best time of my life, city sophistication ‘luv’. The following years my sickness lured me to any country whose customs authorities would stamp me in despite my debilitating disease: Asia, Australia, New Zealand, South and Central America, Africa and India.

I chose to settle down in San Francisco because I had to. I wanted to move to New York but was petrified of living with five others in a rat infested studio apartment dining on canned spaghetti! Los Angeles was out of the question knowing I could never pass the tanning and silicon requirements required for entry. My time spent traveling and working abroad had not even satiated that big city, chic, worldly sophisticate fantasy of mine and I wasn’t going to let go of it! I learned a lot from experiencing cultures different from my own, like an appreciation for the simple things in life; shared meals and meaningful conversation, afternoon strolls down the boulevard greeting your neighbors, the beauty of sprawling about the park watching the world slowly go by. I could return home to Portland or...? I chose San Francisco.

On paper, San Francisco had everything I supposedly needed. Big city sophistication compacted into a 14 sq. mile radius: funky beatnik coffee shops, quaint boutiques, art nouveau newsstands, hip bars, restaurants, wine country, a hilly, Mediterranean landscape of sun washed pastel buildings and a diverse and forward minded group of people. However, for some reason my heart just wasn’t in to it. A lot of times, it seemed like the only green grass that people really cared about in San Francisco was the weed. I came to San Francisco wearing a flower in my hair that soon wilted. Instead of peace, love and happiness what I discovered was extraordinarily overpriced rentals and the infiltration of smug, materialistic dot comers who all prophesized they were leading the world into the new e-conomy. Turf wars between Pac Heights elite, Marina snobs, Mission Hipsters and Castro Partiers who refused to let anyone crash in on the fun. I shuddered at the thought of ever bridge and tunneling it to the East Bay, oh the horror! The only spot that reassured me that I belonged here was whenever I passed Vesuvio Café in Northbeach. The Beatnik haunt with a gaudily painted bar sign that reads ‘We’re itching to get away from Portland, Oregon.’ I knew exactly what they meant. For far too many years I always reassured myself that in times of boredom, indecision or unhappiness the grass is always greener so I spent the next few years living half-heartedly in San Francisco, with one foot out the door and a suitcase always packed.

Tony Bennett’s poignant ode I Left My Heart doesn’t resonate with me as it does so romantically with others as I’ve left my heart scattered about in so many countries, couches, bedrooms, bed-sits, hotels, hostels, houses, studios, apartments, attics and airports. After spending most of my adult life in geographical angst I just settled on San Francisco. How horrible of me to say that I settled for such a world class beaut of a city. However, I had finally reached a point of rooting in my life, whether I liked it or not. I forced myself to realize that the greenest grass is the lawn in my mind, because wherever you are, there you are.

Sure, my heart has not always been in it but I have learned to open up my heart up. Celebrating Chinese New Year buying insanely cheap orchids, $3 dim sum, dipping into divey bars with Buddhist altars lit with incense. Or, what I thought was my first maiden voyage around the bay ending up laboriously helping sail a boat around Alcatraz Island in pouring rain and 40 mph winds. Try spending a Saturday afternoon in the Western Addition giggling with the girls while taking a pole and lap dancing class instructed by a former stripper. Lastly, packing a picnic of bread, cheese and Chardonnay and sprawling about Huntington Park in front of Grace Cathedral. If I use my imagination it is just like being at Notre Dame in Paris!

My experience living here in San Francisco is not that unsimiliar to my Mother's over fifty years ago. I live in a tiny, Victorian apartment in Nob Hill only a few blocks away from the women’s hotel my mother used to live in (now a residence for the elderly). My apartment building used to be a hotel back in the Barbary Coast days and survived the 1906 earthquake as well as St. Mark's did. I don’t own a car and ride the California Street trolley to and from my work every day. Most women go without dressing up these days but I love to! Be it my favorite hot pink, snakeskin, 3" stiletto heels, a French toile, empire, pleated dress or my favorite hat, a gaucho beret I brought back from Buenos Aires.

Spring and spring cleaning came early this year. I went through all my storage and pulled out the few vintage garments my mother managed to hold on to. She passed them along to me last Christmas in Portland where we spent a cold and blurry afternoon indoors browsing through photos of her back in the day, back in San Francisco. Inspired by the nostalgia she pulled out of the attic closet a few items to pass onto me. I was giddy. I chose her pair of white, wrist length, navy-polka dotted gloves and wore them all weekend long. My siblings, niece and nephews all thought I was a loon but I felt like I had been transported back in to a time of grace, style and fun! I told my Mom that come Spring I was going to wear these gloves and bring back the trend of being a lady. She laughed at me, rolled her eyes and said “Not even old ladies like me wear gloves... that time has gone and past. It will never be again.”

I kept my promise. Last February, running the usual 12 minutes late to work I threw on my classic trench coat, grabbed my purse and ran out the door. Skillfully skidding down California Street in 3” heels I gracefully jumped onto the ledge of the passing cable car, clutching the rails with my white, navy-polka dotted gloves. The morning fog hazed my view of the financial district and bay beyond. I live where I live because San Francisco is the mediator city for me. It feeds my fantasy of city sophistication whilst only being an hour and twenty minute plane ride away from my true home and family in Portland, Oregon.