Even though I was just done with the flight claustrophobe moment; even though my left eye blushed like baby carrots and my head did tango and stuffs. Even though my lips were transforming into a sausage and there was still another two hours of drive to the hotel, San Francisco didn’t want to let me go. Despite all the jetlag symptoms visiting like guests on Deepavali, I did Fisherman’s Wharf on a frosty Wednesday, recommended by the staff from the car rental place. “You can find good seafood in there” I remember her saying.
The breeze was cold and velvety, like as if the sea was whispering secrets from the other continents. It felt like a massage on my fagged muscles. The Fisherman’s Wharf, this this sea is where the old San Franciscans lived to make a living. I can see where the city grew from, and where the city nucleus is now. The bell from the far-away trams, the extolment from the stall-keeper’s lips about his own fresh crabs, the chop on the lobster before each half of it was sold and bought for eighteen dollars and the beeps and chinks from the cash register machines of the nearby restaurants and outlets kept this part of San Francisco busy. I came here with an intention to feast the lobsters but only later I realized that my stomach was not ready for anything local yet. I ate Burger King instead. Even that I packed a quarter and slid inside my bag for dinner.
Enough for now, I am not Frank McCourt to write an Angela’s Ashes. I am just a temporary yankee. A fleeting glimpse of the sea bade farewell before I proceed to Sacramento, two hours and many mountains away.
3 comments:
wow, great pics. so jealous, would love to visit cali again
thanks Jenny!
This can be a excellent suggestions specially to these new to blogosphere, temporary and exact information… Many thanks for sharing this a single. A ought to study write-up.
Post a Comment