delinquent
At my one of my previous jobs, failing to submit a timesheet in, ahem, a timely manner would result in receiving an email with the word "delinquent" prominently featured in the subject line. Those emails always made me think of the teenagers that used to loiter, smoking and wearing ripped Canadian tuxedos, around the post office in my hometown. Probably not a surprising link to make seeing as the dictionary definition for delinquent begins with typically of a young person or that person's behavior in parentheses. Also not surprising to anyone that knows me: I was never called a delinquent in high school and I never smoked outside the post office. As to the Canadian tuxedo with holes at the knees...
In any case, if someone was being paid to monitor my submission of blog posts of late, I'd surely have received an email to remind me that I've been delinquent. And, due to my delinquency, I don't know where to start. A few vignettes and a story seem like as good a place as any.
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'Twas the season: the sound of crisp snow crunching beneath winter-proof boots and cozy socks, the vibrant world simultaneously muted and enhanced by a layer of white frosting, the comfy smell of wood smoke and the warmth of a fire, the satisfaction of pegging to victory in fifteen-twos and thirty-ones, boggle and blokus, chalaza-free homemade eggnog, colourful lights, the bustling crowds in an underground city, fresh bagels, true friends.
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San Francisco "winter": tuques and tank-tops, shrouded eclipse, sporadic heating from a source much less enjoyable than a woodstove, December showers, exuberant holiday fire purge on the beach, smores and sundaes, coffee roaster tour and tasting, January flowers (and amber foliage), soaking in the sun, dining sans-sleeves on a terrace, hummingbird haven, crystal skies.
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Willingness to pay
San Francisco is a great place for a staycation in January. Tourist density is low and many locals flock to Tahoe for snow. Consequently, a trip to the Ferry Building on a sunny Saturday doesn't seem like a scene from a claustrophobe's nightmare and Ghirardelli Square doesn't resemble Satan's staging area, featuring cocoa-bearded dwarves screeching with their sticky, grubby claws outstretched. And the cable cars... still cost $5 to ride. No thanks. Besides, the cable cars are over-hyped tourist gimmicks. So, we rode the historic streetcars along less-than-picturesque Market Street and the not-so-scenic #47 down Van Ness on our staycation outing to the Embarcadero and North Beach, with lots of walking in between to avoid Fisherman's Wharf (which is not my idea of pleasurable any time of year).
A week later, I'm invited to a friend's birthday in North Beach. Reviewing the transit options, I conclude that I'm destined to either take a series of buses (that a crow flying would shake its head at in disbelief) or ride the cable cars. I remember that someone told me that the pre-Clipper Muni passes included the cable cars. Some quick searching revealed that the monthly passes on Clipper cards are now also accepted on the cable cars.
Yay! I get to ride the cable cars for essentially free! Suddenly, the cable cars are transformed from frivolous tourist bait to the highlight of my night. Well... maybe that's an exaggeration. The birthday party was at Bimbo's in all its mid-century kitsch and sleaze splendor... is that a naked chick riding a koi rodeo-style on my napkin? Yup. Kétaine au boutte.*
The cable cars proved to be a great way to travel up and down the hills of North Beach on a Saturday evening that concluded a splendid sunny January-summer day in San Francisco. Tourist volumes were low. The streets—unlike the monkey child of a tourist couple hanging from the poles inside the car until the hilarious Chinese conductor encouraged him and his parrot mother, trained to say Noah, to sit outside at the front where they could be seen but not heard by me (or the conductor managing the brakes at the rear of the car)—were calm and serene once the cable car emerged from the retail haven of Union Square. The air was crisp and fresh, occasionally scented by the wonderful aroma of fireplace smoke. The cable car itself was like a moving museum with the ability to transport passengers to the not-so-distant past. San Francisco in all its glory.
* In writing this post, I looked up the word kétaine to make sure I was spelling it correctly. The corresponding Wikipedia article explaining the word's origin was so fantastic, I have to include it here:
C'est probablement dans la région de Saint-Hyacinthe, au cours des années 1940, que le mot « kétaine » prend son origine. À cette époque, il est appliqué aux résidents du marché à foins, surnom donné au quartier pauvre et adjacent au marché à foins de la ville... La [histore] plus répandue suggère que le mot est un dérivé du nom de famille Keaton ou McKeaton, venant d'une famille d'origine irlandaise vivant dans ce quartier et qui aurait eu des goûts vestimentaires et une tenue publique discutables.
The story is that the word originates from the questionable clothing worn by Irish family, with the surname McKeaton or Keaton, that lived in the poor area of Saint-Hyacinthe during the 1940s. Love it.
