Take A Look At Me Now

by Miranda Dickinson

  By the time Lizzie and I climbed inside the wooden cable car, my face was aching from smiling so much. There was a great deal about Fisherman’s Wharf that proved the neighbourhood didn’t take itself too seriously and didn’t expect its visitors to either. Riding the cable car was the perfect way to end the day’s sightseeing and was exciting beyond words. Lizzie and I sat on bench seats, holding on and giggling as the burgundy and gold cable car clunked and bumped in wooden splendour, warm wind blowing through its open windows as it sped up and down the steep streets.

  When we finally swapped the cable car for a slightly more sedate Muni trolleybus, Lizzie grinned at me.

  ‘Good day?’

  ‘Great day. Thank you.’

  ‘Oh it’s my pleasure. I feel like I’m rediscovering the city. So, where to tomorrow?’

  I pulled my guidebook from my bag and consulted its folded-edge pages. How on earth could I choose when everywhere I’d read about sounded so amazing? ‘I don’t know. Where would you recommend?’

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘Nope, this is your trip. I know – close your eyes.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Don’t argue, Nellie, just do it.’

  I did as I was told. ‘OK. Now what?’

  ‘Open the guidebook anywhere.’

  ‘That’s daft …’

  ‘No it’s not! Come on, Nell, live dangerously! You’re meant to be having an adventure, remember?’

  Laughing, I flicked through the guidebook pages and stopped at one.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Lizzie said. ‘So – where are we going tomorrow?’

  I opened my eyes and looked at the page, a large grin spreading across my already aching face when I saw the location. It was perfect and already I couldn’t wait to see it.

  ‘Here.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Famous names

  We started our next day of sightseeing with a visit to Annie’s for breakfast. Today I decided to try the ‘S-B-K Crêpes’ – two light and crispy crêpes stuffed with fresh strawberries, banana and kiwi fruit, served with warm maple syrup. With several mugs of Annie’s signature house coffee it was the most delicious way to start the day. We were just finishing our breakfast when Laverne appeared at our table, along with an elderly man and woman.

  ‘Nell, I have two very special Annie’s regulars who want to meet you. This is Mr and Mrs Alfaro.’

  ‘Pleased to meet Lizzie’s family,’ Mr Alfaro smiled, his eyes almost disappearing behind the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘We are very fond of your cousin.’

  I shook his hand. ‘Lovely to meet you, sir.’

  ‘Enough with the “sir” or we’ll never drag him away from you,’ Mrs Alfaro chuckled. ‘Saul Alfaro doesn’t often get attention from young ladies these days.’

  ‘Like you know …’ Mr Alfaro muttered back, still grinning at me.

  ‘Oh, I know. I’ve been married to you for fifty-nine years. Nell, it’s a pleasure to meet you. You should both come to tea with us.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Mrs A, but we couldn’t impose on you,’ Lizzie replied, immediately silenced by a disgruntled sweep of the old lady’s hand.

  ‘Nonsense. Your cousin is new in this city, so you must both come for tea. Tomorrow afternoon is good for us. Saul, make them say yes.’

  Saul Alfaro stared at his wife of fifty-nine years. ‘And how am I meant to do that?’ He turned to Lizzie and me. ‘Girls, please say you’ll come for tea. It would please my wife. And it would make my day a whole lot easier.’

  Esther tutted and muttered something indecipherable under her breath. Keen to rescue Mr Alfaro and placate his wife, Lizzie jumped in.

  ‘Of course. We’d love to.’

  The relief on the old man’s face was immense. ‘Wonderful news. You ladies have a great day,’ Mr Alfaro said with a wink.

  Lizzie smiled at him. ‘We will, thanks Saul.’

  Mrs Alfaro linked arms with her husband and they began to shuffle away. ‘And now you’re winking at the ladies? Since when did you ever wink at ladies?’

  ‘Maybe I’ve always winked at the ladies,’ I heard Mr Alfaro retort. ‘Maybe I just don’t wink at you …’

  ‘I hope you realise you’ve just met royalty,’ Lizzie said, twenty minutes later, as we walked to the Muni trolleybus stop enjoying the warm sunshine. ‘The Alfaros have been coming to Annie’s since opening day. I don’t think they’ve missed a week since. You’re in for a treat tomorrow afternoon.’

  I was looking forward to it already.

  I had read so much about Union Square but arriving in it was something else. A wide stone piazza with a tall Corinthian column topped with a statue of Victoria (the Goddess of Victory) at its heart, it was surrounded on all sides by famous stores whose names I instantly recognised: Macy’s, Saks Fifth Avenue, Tiffany, Neiman Marcus, Barney’s and Bloomingdale’s. The endless hum of city traffic mingled in the air with the low moan of fire truck sirens and the quaint tinkling of cable car bells running up Powell Street. In truth, I’d been looking forward to visiting the department stores with little thought to what the Square itself might look like, but now I was here the spectacle of it was so enticing I could have stayed there all day, just watching the world go by. However, I was on a special mission for my best friend: Vicky had long been obsessed with Macy’s since we visited it on our shopping trip to New York two years ago and had begged me to buy her something from the iconic department store.

  ‘Even if it’s just a carrier bag,’ she had urged me before I left for San Francisco. ‘I didn’t buy anything when we went to the New York one. Then at least I can pretend I shop there regularly.’

  Walking around the brightly lit, shiny interior of Macy’s, it was hard to believe I was still in the same city as the gaudy brashness of Fisherman’s Wharf from yesterday. Here everything was polished, impeccably placed and elegantly laid out, much like the piazza around which the stores were positioned. Lizzie and I spent hours walking around the floors of the department stores, feeling like we were starring in an episode of a glamorous US drama. I was tempted to add to the scary total on my credit card – especially when I saw all the wonderful designer clothes and shoes on offer – but I decided to be sensible, knowing that the next seven and a half weeks would see my credit hammered enough. Lizzie, however, found a beautiful pair of shoes reduced to half price and succumbed to their charms. While she kept chastising herself for such uncharacteristic decadence, I could see how happy she was with her purchase.

  ‘Now all you need is a special occasion to wear them,’ I said, as we ate lunch in The Cheesecake Factory at the top of Macy’s on an elegant glass-edged terrace overlooking Union Square.

  ‘I’ll wear them for Pablo.’

  ‘You can’t just wear them around your apartment, Lizzie! Clearly we need to find you a man to take you on a fabulous date so that you can wear them.’

  My cousin groaned. ‘Good luck with that one. I think I’m safer having a stay-at-home date with my goldfish.’

  ‘But you said you’d had some dates?’

  ‘Sure, I’ve dated.’ She twisted her wine glass and stared into it. ‘But dating here is just agreeing to dinner or a drink with someone. It rarely leads anywhere. Most people are just out to socialise.’

  I considered this and decided to push the topic. ‘What about Eric? He seemed really pleased to see you yesterday and he was incredibly attentive when he came over for dinner. He’s good looking and fun to be with …’

  Lizzie laughed. ‘Now you can stop right there. Eric’s a great friend and he’s one of those people who always gives you his full attention. He’s also incredibly in love with Xiu Min, his gorgeous Chinese girlfriend – who happens to be a good friend of mine as well.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Exactly. Anyway, enough about me. If we’re matchmaking anyone it should be you. Especially after your brief encounter yesterday.’

  I knew Lizzie was deliberately changing the subject, but I didn’t object. Instead, it w
as my turn to dismiss a question. ‘Oh no, the last thing I need is a holiday fling …’

  ‘But Californian men meet with your approval?’ Her expression was pure wicked delight.

  I had to laugh. ‘Yes, OK, they’re rather easy on the eye. I suppose a little window-shopping is acceptable while I’m here?’

  ‘Completely acceptable. In fact, I think you should definitely make it a feature of your stay.’

  From: nell.sullygirl@gmail.com

  To: vickster1981@me-mail.com

  Subject: Shopping!

  Hi Vix

  Please see attached photo of the bag I’m going to send you from Macy’s! There’s a little gift in it as well, but I’m saving that as a surprise …

  Macy’s is enormous – one whole side of Union Square – and I reckon you would have to move in for a week to see everything!

  Hope things are looking brighter on the jobs front for you. Keeping everything crossed for a fantastic job to turn up really soon. Don’t give up. In just over seven weeks I’ll be home and probably straight into the dole queue …

  Love ya

  Nell xxx

  From: vickster1981@me-mail.com

  To: nell.sullygirl@gmail.com

  Subject: Re: Shopping!

  NELL SULLIVAN I LOVE YOU!!!

  Honestly, the bag alone is wonderful but I’m so excited about the surprise gift! I will be stalking the postman until it arrives …

  Job-wise, it’s bleak, Nellie. BLEAK. There’s nothing out there. Even the eleven-year-old careers advisor I saw said it ‘might be best to go back to college for a year to retrain’ because the jobs market is ‘stagnant’. To be honest, I was quite impressed he knew such a big word. But that’s the reality, hun. Greg has managed to get some night shifts at Sainsbury’s shelf-stacking. It’s great but makes me feel even more useless because I’m here doing nothing. Actually, I’m wondering if CBeebies would pay me for ongoing viewer research. I’m watching so many hours of it with Ruby at the moment I’m sure it qualifies me as an expert. Maybe I’ll email them.

  Have a fantastic time. And keep sending pictures. !

  Big loves,

  Vix xxx

  Inside the Macy’s bag I put a cute bracelet in Vicky’s favourite colours of pink and lilac, a sweet little notebook with the Tiffany logo and two postcards of Union Square I’d bought that afternoon. I popped down to EarthSong, the New Age shop underneath Lizzie’s apartment, and Rosita the friendly Mexican owner picked out a lovely batik card for me, embroidered with the words ‘Believe in Best’ in delicate gold thread.

  I sent the parcel, hoping that it would be the first of many positive things for Vicky. I couldn’t do much to help my friend while I was here, but if surprise parcels and emails with photos provided welcome distraction from her job and money worries it was an easy thing to offer. I kept thinking about her – and the rest of my former work colleagues – biding time until they found another job. Part of me felt guilty for escaping the horrors of redundancy, strolling in late afternoon sun in California while they were stuck at home. I was only delaying the inevitable, but a large part of me was glad I’d chosen to do this.

  ‘Beautiful afternoon,’ a man with almost more piercings than skin said as he passed me.

  ‘It is,’ I smiled.

  ‘Make the most of it,’ called his companion, a tall, slender lady with long silver hair whose full Indian cotton skirt embroidered with tiny bells tinkled as she moved.

  I loved the sense of acceptance that seemed to characterise The Haight. It was all part of the crazy, wonderful mix of the neighbourhood I was growing to love already – where a newly unemployed Assistant Planning Officer from Richmond via Woodford could happily coexist with hippies, Goths, geeks and the man who lived in The Panhandle who talked to trees. Anywhere else in the world this wouldn’t have been possible. Here, it was. And as to the manifold delights of this most accepting of cities, I had so many more to discover …

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fortune cookies and fate

  The old Chinese man playing his huquin on the corner of Grant Avenue and Sacramento Street next day was the perfect picture of Chinatown authenticity – until I realised he was energetically bowing his way through ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. A delighted crowd of Canadian students had gathered around him, the Canadian flags stitched to their backpacks bopping in time to the unexpected Nirvana tribute. Pleased with their rapturous applause, he then launched into ‘Clementine’ and ‘Happy Birthday to You’.

  ‘I can’t help thinking he played his ace too soon there,’ Lizzie chuckled as we carried on walking down Grant Avenue, the traditional frontages of the Chinatown shops at odds with the glimpses of the Financial District we saw down the hill at each road junction.

  ‘We should have bought one of his CDs. Vicky will never believe me when I tell her.’

  Red lanterns for Chinese New Year were strung from one side of the street to the other, their colour matching the lucky red of so many of Grant Avenue’s shop frontages and signs. The scent of incense and tea was in the air, punctuated at intervals by the spicy umami of roasting meat, soy noodles and ginger from the noodle bars and dim sum stands. Had it not been for the enormous American cars, trolleybuses and ever-impatient white and yellow taxicabs rumbling down the road, I could have imagined I was strolling in the streets of a Chinese town.

  After a visit to the Golden Gate Fortune Cookie factory in Ross Alley – which turned out to be a tiny room that stretched back into dimness with five ladies moulding hot dough around small slips of paper and depositing the finished fortune cookies into bamboo baskets – we found a bench overlooking a kids’ play area in Portsmouth Square. Next to us a group of Chinese men played mahjong on a concrete bench, each man engaged in conversation with the rest without pausing to listen, yet apparently understanding everything being said by everyone. A group of women at the next bench along cast disapproving glances in their direction, shaking their heads and tutting loudly. Children were playing on the playground, being watched by mothers and grandmothers, while smartly dressed men and women in suits ate lunch from bento boxes – indicating how close the square was to the sleek, high-rise buildings of the Financial District. The Transamerica Pyramid loomed large on the skyline over the multicultural, multigenerational mix playing out before us.

  ‘Well, the Fortune Cookie factory was an experience,’ I laughed.

  ‘Don’t be so quick to mock,’ Lizzie warned, brandishing the carrier bag of cookies. ‘Hidden in the sugar and polythene of this bag may lie our very fortunes.’

  ‘Oh well, when you put it like that …’

  She snapped a sweet cookie open and pulled out the paper fortune. ‘Listen to this: “Soon you will see what your destiny holds” … Spooky, Nell.’

  I cracked open another cookie. ‘Ooh, Lizzie, here’s a good one for you: “An unexpected visitor may delight you” … I bet that isn’t Pablo.’

  ‘Sounds promising.’ She opened another cookie and her smile faded. ‘Ah. This isn’t such good news: “Solitude is a path you must walk for a season”. Rats!’

  I smiled at her, enjoying our game. ‘You know, I’m so glad we bought these, or else we would never know what our lives had in store.’

  My cousin laughed. ‘True. Although I have a feeling you’ll leave San Francisco with more of an idea than you arrived with.’

  The mahjong game came to a triumphant end beside us, with one man jumping up and performing a delighted dance, while his fellow players loudly disputed his win.

  ‘I hope so, Liz. Either that or I’ll just go home happier, heavier and poorer …’

  ‘… But with a fabulous tan …’

  ‘And ending all of my sentences with a West Coast question mark?’

  ‘… while carrying a whole suitcase of spookily accurate fortune cookies!’

  Breathless from giggling, I smiled at my cousin. ‘Sounds perfect to me.’

  ‘Good. Hey, we’d better get back. We have a date with Haight ro
yalty, remember?’

  An hour later, Lizzie and I stood outside a coffee-coloured wooden house in Broderick Street.

  ‘Here we are,’ she grinned. ‘Ready for tea with the Alfaros?’

  She led the way down a path at the side to a ground-level front door and rang the doorbell. We could see Mr Alfaro’s shuffling figure approaching down the hallway through the frosted glass door for a long time before he reached us.

  ‘I swear that hallway gets longer every day,’ he apologised when he eventually opened the door, ushering us into his home.

  Inside smelled of super-strength floral air freshener and bleach. Across the walls on either side of the entrance lobby neatly hung lines of family photos told the story of the elderly couple and showcased some of their many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Mr Alfaro made a point of introducing us to each one, almost as if the people were actually standing in a receiving line down the hallway.

  ‘That’s my brother Caleb, my sister Miryam and my youngest brother Zaccai … Esther’s father Benny – was he ever terrifying! My mother, God rest her … And these are our sons Daniel, Micah and Clint …’ Seeing our amusement, he gave a shrug. ‘So my wife is a Dirty Harry fanatic, what can I tell you?’

  Esther was in the couple’s small kitchen, her best blue dress and neatly starched white apron standing out from the brown and beige colour scheme of the rest of the apartment. Seeing us, she bustled into the hall, shooing Saul away to make drinks.

  ‘Now, I can’t say our tea will be as accomplished as those you have in England,’ she conceded, clearly believing every English person enjoyed tea at the Ritz every day as she led us into their living room, ‘but I have been baking this morning, which I hope you will like, Nell.’