San Francisco...Evening One

"He'll take you to the pier for $12." I slipped into the back of the sterling Lincoln and the adventure began. I braced myself on the well-worn seats, gray as the fog with deep lines in the leather like the face of a man who's lived through it all, as he takes turns that don't exist, weaving across lanes and cussing at the elderly Asian couple and the supposed lesbian on the bike.

"Do you see that there?" Not missing a beat, "that's Tosca.. It's where Nicholson, De Niro...," he rattled off Hollywood's elite new rat pack with a gravel voice and immense pride..., "and over there, see that? That's where Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio got married. I slept with Marilyn before and AFTER the wedding... I introduced them you know, and a few days later she was begging me back 'baby please.' It's why my voice is the way it is; she wore me out...[beat]...anyway..." he drifted back to the sights and sounds of the city. "Lombard street is crooked so the horses wouldn't hurt themselves in the rain. Same guy designed the cable cars a few years later... Here's the pier ma'am, I'll drop you here, since it gets a little congested down there."

"Thank you. I only have a 20, can you give me 5 back?"

"I don't normally make change but I'll make an exception for you."

The entrance faces the water and it's a stunning setting. A fishing vessel is coming in

and the sun is setting through the still boats.

The air smells wonderful and I note the absense of the Sea Gull's cry.

I'm a bit out of place as a party of 1 in this environment of "Joe, Party of 4's." But I'm relishing the time to write and I wait by the water until my table is called. The red snapper is delicious and freshly caught today. Scoma's is one of the few restauraunts that maintains its own fleet. The tables around me discuss their vacations with one another and I eavesdrop on the couple from southwest Kansas who verbally paint a portrait of their home to the fascinated waitress; both viewing the other's existence as exotic. The empty chair across my table draws ample attention each time the waitstaff inquires about my satisfaction with the meal. I smile cordially and nod to the aging patrons who look upon me with a parental gaze before again burying my head in my iPhone to jot down notes for the blog I will write later. After a cappuccino and a note to Mom, I bid my ado and exchange places in the cab with the three young women heading into the restaurant.

This cabbie is Russian, born in China and raised in Brazil. He is animated and engaging. He tells me the weather is fine because he captured the sun for me. He zings one one-liner after another before unleashing an arsenal of bad jokes: "why did the Amish girl get thrown out of the family," anticipating my response. "I don't know, why," I say to humor him. "For her habit of having a men a night. Get it Mennonite!!!" He continues, "I hope that didn't offend you; I try to keep them clean, but..." his jokes continue and I interrupt him to ask how he ended up in such a beautiful city. By the end of the short car ride, I know his daughter is a body builder and he wants to die in Chicago "because you can still vote when you're dead there." Upon arrival to the hotel, I hand him off to the three businessmen heading out on the town and warn them that they are in for an animated taxi cross town. I enjoy a glass of Veuve Clicquot at the hotel bar before retreating to my room for the evening to prep for the early day ahead.