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     Originally they put us up at the Hilton, but a couple of months afterward, I guess SIA got a better deal and moved us to the Parc 55.  

     No complaints here, as that’s how I discovered my favorite saloon, Coffee Ron’s, across the street at the corner of Mason and Ellis.

     Although I was born and raised in the Los Angeles area, I much prefer San Francisco.  The weather is better (no smog), public transportation is better (don’t need a car), with neighborhoods and attractions encouraging one to walk.  Unlike flat, spread out forever, smog blanketed L.A.; Frisco is a romantic, cosmopolitan city built on a series of hills surrounded by water.

     During the following five years, every three months on average, I’d do an SFO layover with two free days.  When operating a Hong Kong direct to San Francisco it would usually take 11.5 hours flight time.  To meet flight crew rest regulations two captains were required, along with two flight engineers and one first officer (me).  For this trip a 747-312 “Big Top” was also required, because of its extra endurance.  Most of Business Class was located at the upper deck on the 312, and instead of a spiral staircase, it had a straight staircase on the left hand side of the fuselage.  Where the top of this staircase ended at the rear of Business Class, and to the right side of it, was a closet door.  Inside that closet were two Spartan bunks beds where the flight crew took turns sleeping.  We got four hours rest a piece in that narrow, dark, claustrophobic closet.

Business Class in the upper deck.

Stairway leading to Business Class and Crew Rest Closet.

Bunks in the cramped Crew Rest Closet.

     I’d always opt for the lower bunk, which was merely a thin mattress stretched out on the aircraft’s floor, which gave me more room for my long legs.  Kicking off my penny-loafers, getting as comfortable as I could in my uniform, I’d cover myself with a thin blanket and use two pillows stolen from Business Class.  Inserting silicone ear plugs, isolating myself from the flight attendants and passengers thumping around my closet, eventually the monotonous, high pitched hiss of the frozen air rushing across the 747’s skin at over 600 mph outside would lull me to sleep.

     That is until a captain or flight engineer began jerking on my sock-covered foot four hours later; demanding squatters’ rights to my bunk.         

     Consequently, upon reaching Frisco, I developed this routine:

     Dragging my weary, jet-lagged ass out of bed, I’d shave and shower, and by 10 A.M. plop myself down at Coffee Ron’s counter.  

     Then consume my first Irish coffee of the day (made with Grand Marnier), along with a humongous croissant; all the while feeding quarters to the bartender to play my favorite tunes on the jukebox, with the monumental selection and incredible sound system.  

My Finnish Bartender.

     At this time of the morning the bar was usually empty; so the bartender and I could play whatever we wanted.  A couple of our favorites: “The Lady in Red” and “Back in the High Life Again.”

     Subsequently, I’d take a leisurely three block stroll to Union Square and hop a cable car to Fisherman’s Wharf.  Developing a social etiquette with the Cable Car Gripman – by chatting him up and helping passengers on and off the car – I was allowed to stand on the car’s right rear bottom step at its entrance.  Hanging onto the handrail for dear life afforded me an unrestricted view of the city as we traveled up and down the steep, breathtaking hills.

Please note the infamous Alcatraz Island in the background.

     Christ, dear reader, this was one extraordinary way to explore the beauty of San Francisco.  No wonder the singer Tony Bennett left his heart here.

     This is the last manually operated cable car system in the world.  The cars are pulled by a cable running below the street, held by a grip that extends from the car through a slit in the street’s surface.  Running at a constant speed of 9.5 mph, the cable is driven by a 510 horsepower electric motor located in the central power house.  

     To start and stop the movement of the car, the Gripman closes and opens the grip around the cable (similar to the clutch of a conventional car), with the grip's jaws exerting a pressure of up to 30,000 psi on the cable.  The Gripman stands at the rear of the car, allowing me to look up at him from the bottom step of the right rear entrance.  Carrying on a conversation; I watch him operate the grip and brake with both hands, which resembles an oversized hand brake, with built in clutch, from a gigantic truck.

My good buddy the Cable Car Gripman.

     After my exciting ride climbing impossibly steep hills, I’m deposited alongside grassy Victorian Park, at the Hyde Street turnaround (an iron roundtable where cable cars do a 180° for the return trip). 

     Fisherman’s Wharf roughly encompasses the northern waterfront area of San Francisco, from Van Ness Avenue and east to Kearny Street.  Since I’ve been dropped off at the west end of it, I begin my exploration eastbound.

     The wharf gets its name and neighborhood characteristics from the mid to late 1800's when Italian immigrant fishermen came during the gold rush.   They mostly settled in the North Beach area, close to the wharf, and fished for local delicacies including the famous Dungeness crab. 

Dungenes crabs and other “eats” at Fisherman’s Wharf.

     Despite its redevelopment as a tourist attraction, in the 1970’s and 1980’s, the area is still home to many active fishermen and their fleets. 

     I observed these fishing boats, dear reader, moored in neat lines along a variety of wharfs.  They appeared to me as though they’d been designed by Walt Disney for an amusement park ride; being compact, quaint and “cute.”

     Adding to the charm of these wharfs were the white and grey seagulls and pelicans – perched on pilings - patiently waiting for scraps from these fishing boats.  I fed them sourdough bread instead; leftovers from my clam chowder bread bowl.  

     I’d simply toss a piece of bread into the air and swoosh!  They’d snap it up on the fly!  One very clever gull even began a holding pattern directly above me.  As his racetrack pattern came over my head, I’d fire a chunk, which he’d easily catch while banking without missing a beat!

     Gee, how I wanted to take this “act” to Vegas, dear reader.  The gull and I could have really cleaned up!

     One of my favorite hangouts (and there were many along the wharf) was The Cannery, a three-storied red brick building at the corner of Jefferson and Leavenworth.

     Originally built in 1907, it housed the canning operations for Del Monte.  When Del Monte closed it in 1937, it was used as a warehouse for a number of smaller businesses. In the 1960's, however, a local investor purchased it and transformed it to vintage boutiques, art galleries and restaurants.

     The courtyard, where the Del Monte trains used to arrive, was also remodeled as a beautiful open-air restaurant, with 100-year-old olive trees.

     My preferred location at The Cannery was the second-floor gallery.  Where I could look straight down to the brick enclosed foyer.  There were a lot of incredibly talented musicians working the streets of this city, which had not yet been “discovered”, and sadly, never would be.  On this particular layover in SFO, I was in luck.  For below me, at the bottom of the foyer, sat a young girl with waist-length golden hair, adorned with a wreath of daisies, wearing a long-sleeved, cotton maxi, and shod in leather sandals; a true “flower child.”  She played a 29-string minstrel harp, and had the voice of an angel; the acoustics in the brick-lined foyer amplifying each crystal clear note.

     I listened spellbound, dear reader, and actually wept.  For I knew in the bottom of my heart, this was the closest I would ever get to heaven.  Of all the cities I’ve ever visited throughout the world as an airline pilot, Frisco will always remain the cherry on my cupcake.

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