July 23, 2014 at 2:10 p.m.
No strangers exist on a cable car
Back in the Saddle
The guys from Switzerland were quiet.
The young woman from Argentina just shrugged.
It was late, and it was getting later.
And the cable car was stuck.
I was back in San Francisco to help judge the California Newspaper Publishers Association contest. This was something like my seventh time, but it's a gig that's hard to say no to.
First of all, it's an honor. A blue-ribbon panel of nine makes the final determination of the winners, and for a small town guy from Indiana it's cool to rub elbows with editors who have posted distinguished careers in places like Dallas, Louisville, Seattle, and New York.
Second, it's a chance to read some great journalism and pick up fresh ideas. Entries go through three regional preliminary judgings to narrow the field, so we're looking at the cream of the crop.
Third, while it is work - two and a half full days of reading, nine divisions, 28 categories, and individual entries that can run to dozens of pages - at the end of the day you are in San Francisco, a city with more great restaurants than anyplace else on earth and someone else is picking up the tab for dinner.
Sunday night that meant a private dining room at a boutique hotel. Monday night it meant a marvelous seafood place with a view of San Francisco Bay.
And as a bonus, some of us took the cable car to and from the restaurant, a great - if you will forgive me - San Francisco treat.
There are no strangers on a cable car.
Even the most sophisticated traveler becomes a joyful rube. We're all in this together, sharing the old fashioned ride up the brutal hills and the exhilaration of the rides downhill.
The ride isn't cheap. It will cost you $5 these days to go from Union Square to Fisherman's Wharf, though there's a day-pass that can be a good deal for tourists.
Board a cable car, and you move back in time. The technology of gears and cables and pulleys is so far removed from our age of computers as to be from another planet. But perhaps because of that and because so many of the riders are tourists or visitors, an instant camaraderie develops among those onboard.
As for me, I always ride outside.
The true cable car experience involves standing on the edge of the car, holding on, feeling each tug as the car grabs the cable, squeezing yourself in as another car passes, watching out for rearview mirrors on mini-vans that might just clip your elbow.
The ride to dinner was great. The night was remarkably comfortable for San Francisco in the spring.
And the dinner was great as well. (Was I wrong to order the Chilean sea bass when someone else was buying? If so, my guilt didn't last for long.)
The weather was still mild when we headed back.
As usual, I found a place outside. Other members of the panel - John from Bismarck, Susan from Minneapolis, and another John from Maine - opted for inside seats. Susan's husband and I stationed ourselves outside, standing on a narrow step and hanging on.
All went well until we got to Washington Street. There, having climbed Russian Hill, we were supposed to make a steep downhill run then a sharp right turn - known as rounding the horn - onto Powell Street for a steep climb up Nob Hill.
Instead, we stopped.
There was a problem with the cable, and three cars in front of us were unable to make the turn.
And so we were stuck.
That's when you strike up a conversation with the quiet guys from Switzerland and the young woman from Argentina.
There wasn't much else one could do.
It was a long, long, steep, steep climb up Nob Hill then down to my hotel.
So, in the spirit of cable car conviviality, we shot the breeze while we waited, pleased that the usual chilly March breeze off the bay had taken the night off.
Finally, after much consultation and head-scratching, the crews seemed to figure things out.
Word was that it was a problem with the cable slipping on one side of the pulley, but what do I know. A couple of cable cars were pushed up Nob Hill by semis, but ours rounded the horn just fine.
We rolled up to the hotel about 45 minutes late.
"So much for public transportation," said Susan, the judge from Minneapolis.
"So much for 19th century technology," I replied.[[In-content Ad]]
The young woman from Argentina just shrugged.
It was late, and it was getting later.
And the cable car was stuck.
I was back in San Francisco to help judge the California Newspaper Publishers Association contest. This was something like my seventh time, but it's a gig that's hard to say no to.
First of all, it's an honor. A blue-ribbon panel of nine makes the final determination of the winners, and for a small town guy from Indiana it's cool to rub elbows with editors who have posted distinguished careers in places like Dallas, Louisville, Seattle, and New York.
Second, it's a chance to read some great journalism and pick up fresh ideas. Entries go through three regional preliminary judgings to narrow the field, so we're looking at the cream of the crop.
Third, while it is work - two and a half full days of reading, nine divisions, 28 categories, and individual entries that can run to dozens of pages - at the end of the day you are in San Francisco, a city with more great restaurants than anyplace else on earth and someone else is picking up the tab for dinner.
Sunday night that meant a private dining room at a boutique hotel. Monday night it meant a marvelous seafood place with a view of San Francisco Bay.
And as a bonus, some of us took the cable car to and from the restaurant, a great - if you will forgive me - San Francisco treat.
There are no strangers on a cable car.
Even the most sophisticated traveler becomes a joyful rube. We're all in this together, sharing the old fashioned ride up the brutal hills and the exhilaration of the rides downhill.
The ride isn't cheap. It will cost you $5 these days to go from Union Square to Fisherman's Wharf, though there's a day-pass that can be a good deal for tourists.
Board a cable car, and you move back in time. The technology of gears and cables and pulleys is so far removed from our age of computers as to be from another planet. But perhaps because of that and because so many of the riders are tourists or visitors, an instant camaraderie develops among those onboard.
As for me, I always ride outside.
The true cable car experience involves standing on the edge of the car, holding on, feeling each tug as the car grabs the cable, squeezing yourself in as another car passes, watching out for rearview mirrors on mini-vans that might just clip your elbow.
The ride to dinner was great. The night was remarkably comfortable for San Francisco in the spring.
And the dinner was great as well. (Was I wrong to order the Chilean sea bass when someone else was buying? If so, my guilt didn't last for long.)
The weather was still mild when we headed back.
As usual, I found a place outside. Other members of the panel - John from Bismarck, Susan from Minneapolis, and another John from Maine - opted for inside seats. Susan's husband and I stationed ourselves outside, standing on a narrow step and hanging on.
All went well until we got to Washington Street. There, having climbed Russian Hill, we were supposed to make a steep downhill run then a sharp right turn - known as rounding the horn - onto Powell Street for a steep climb up Nob Hill.
Instead, we stopped.
There was a problem with the cable, and three cars in front of us were unable to make the turn.
And so we were stuck.
That's when you strike up a conversation with the quiet guys from Switzerland and the young woman from Argentina.
There wasn't much else one could do.
It was a long, long, steep, steep climb up Nob Hill then down to my hotel.
So, in the spirit of cable car conviviality, we shot the breeze while we waited, pleased that the usual chilly March breeze off the bay had taken the night off.
Finally, after much consultation and head-scratching, the crews seemed to figure things out.
Word was that it was a problem with the cable slipping on one side of the pulley, but what do I know. A couple of cable cars were pushed up Nob Hill by semis, but ours rounded the horn just fine.
We rolled up to the hotel about 45 minutes late.
"So much for public transportation," said Susan, the judge from Minneapolis.
"So much for 19th century technology," I replied.[[In-content Ad]]
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