It May Be a Tourist Trap, But It's My Tourist Trap

I should hate Fisherman’s Wharf.

Every guidebook I’ve read, every native I’ve talked to, tells me that the citizens of San Francisco loathe Fisherman’s Wharf as the worst kind of tourist trap, full of overpriced eateries, chintzy shops and bug-eyed tourists complete with obnoxiously oversized cameras.

Well, I loved Fisherman’s Wharf when I was a tourist (with a tiny, disposable camera, thank-you-very-much), and I still love it now that I’m a native. It’s a special spot for me, associated with sharp impressions.

Fisherman’s Wharf, San Francisco, CA.

My first visit to San Francisco was a family vacation when I was 15. I don’t recall a lot of what we did, but the sensory impressions stick with me to this day. I still recall Ghiradelli chocolate melting on my tongue, the sharp tang of sourdough bread, wind whipping past as I clung to the outside of a cable car like a madwoman (scaring the crap out of my mother). 

One impression sticks vividly in my mind – standing on the tiny scrap of beach between the Wharf and Ghiradelli Square, watching waves crash on the shore under a steel gray sky. It was the first time I’d ever seen the ocean, a proper ocean, not a gulf surrounded by land on three sides. I could tell the difference. The Pacific just seemed so much more infinite, resonating with mystery and age. 

The impressions stayed with me in the depths of my mind, and during my senior year of college, when I finally had enough money available to have a proper Spring Break, I knew exactly where I was going.

This was after my semester abroad, so I was well acquainted with the joys of hostelling. I booked a bed at the San Francisco City Center youth hostel. After I’d checked into my room, slung down my stuff, and then tromped back to the lobby to check out the info boards. While I was studying a notice for a day trip to Muir Woods, a woman came over and introduced herself.

“Hi, I’m Min,” she said. “Want to hang out?” 

And it was just that simple. We found a local Thai place, and I got my first taste of Thai cuisine, very light and noodle-y, with a hint of coconut. Min was in town for just a couple days, on vacation from Toronto. Later, we corralled a bunch of other people from the hostel to go clubbing in the Castro. I was one of three women in club full of gay men. Still, I had some fabulous, interesting conversations that night.

The best part is that SF City Center offers a bunch of tours on the cheap. I did a day trip out to Muir Woods for something like $20, something which usually costs about $50. If you have the chance to see the redwoods, go. No description, no picture can truly capture how amazing and incredible this place is. Words like “awe-inspiring” and “majestic” only convey the merest shadow of what the redwoods are. You can feel how ancient these trees are. There’s a sense of age, and patience, and peace. 

And naturally I went to Fisherman’s Wharf again. I met up with my friend/former fling Devin, who regular readers (do I have any?) will remember from my trip to Ireland. He was living in Sacramento at the time and drove in for the day. We wandered around Pier 39, watched the sea lions, listened to some excellent street musicians, ate clam chowder in sourdough bread bowls. Eventually we wandered down to that smidgen of beach in front of Ghiradelli Square and watched the water. This time it was a sunny day, and I felt like I could see over the horizon and past the edge of forever. 

When I moved out to San Francisco a few months ago, I tried to be a good native and not do the “tourist-y crap.” But then I wound up with a free parking pass to Fisherman’s Wharf. I’m still young and poor enough to appreciate free stuff. 

The artist Bill Dan has been practicing the art of rock balancing for over ten years. If you'd like to find out where he'll be next, check out his website at www.rock-on-rock-on.com.

And yes, I found myself sitting on that beach one more time, watching the waves roll in, among other things. Over the years, I’ve grown slightly less stupid and somewhat more observant. I enjoy watching people, trying to figure out why they do what they do. I watched a large group of swimmers in wetsuits doing laps inside a set of buoys. I wondered why anyone would choose to swim in frigid Northern California water. I flagged down one of the women after she emerged and found out the swimmers were training for a triathlon to benefit leukemia research. 

I wandered further down the stretch of sand, and noticed a man sculpting with rocks. In actual fact, he was balancing rocks on top of each other, but it seems to bland a description. This man was truly creating works of art, using just some rocks that had washed up on the shore. He would maneuver a large rock into position for the base, then find the center of gravity of a smaller rock and balance on top. Then he would take another, much larger stone, find its center of gravity, and balance it on top of the smaller rock. He’d created about six at that point, and was working on another.

What truly amazes me is that, when he’s done for the day, he takes his sculptures down. All of them. It’s too much of a safety hazard to leave them standing. I looked through a battered photo album of all the rock sculptures he’s done for the past 12 years. Nothing remains except these pictures. When I write a story, or make a zine, I love knowing I’ve created something tangible, something I can put my hands or eyes on. I guess for him, it’s the act of creating that is important to him, not the creation. How many people do you know like that? I can’t think of any, myself included.

For my readers (all two of you) I have a challenge. Go somewhere you usually don’t. Take a trip if you can afford it, but if you can’t, just hop on your bike or on the bus or in your car and go somewhere that is not your job, school, or a friend’s house. Walk around, and watch the people. Ditch the iPod and listen to what’s going on around you. Smell, taste, touch—use all of your senses to experience and enjoy the ambience. And then tell me about it. My e-mail is gjeditor@moonlightramble.com. I’ve been writing about my experiences for almost two years now. ‘Bout time some of you returned the favor.