Day Off

Standing at the edge of Pier 7, amongst the chain-smoking casual fisherman, we looked onto our city, chatting about the formative impressions these buildings leave on us, the history of its development, and the subtle nuances of what is an ultimately arbitrary set of opinions regarding architecture. I could smell that lightly-slated air, which always reminds me a little of my father. Perhaps an image of my father doesn't appear in my head, but when I think of the memories that return to the house of my brain--fond guests who visit too seldom-- they involve my father. And the sea.
We strolled up Broadway, watching the slight differences that demarcate the change of settings: the lifeless waterfront luxury condominiums transition to strip clubs and dive bars named with unimaginatively obvious abstract nouns. "Atmosphere." "Urban."
Crossfade to ------------> Columbus Avenue.

We walk into a church, St Francis of Assisi Roman Catholic. The cacophonic clutter of honking noises and city chatter was silenced at once by the solemn hollow of the church. I sat in the third-row pew and looked up (something I do quite often). I love the meditative nature of churches. I was raised in a Catholic school, where prayer and worship in God's house was forced upon us twice a week. I am no longer Catholic, but I remember fondly the majestic wonderment of looking up during mass,  admiring the church's vastness, respecting its palpable influence to quiet my mind.

We emerge back onto the street feeling like we've cleansed our brains, only to dirty it again with mediocre hamburgers and ineloquent sexual innuendoes.

We stood before the Sentinel Building, basking, if only briefly, in the rusted copper masonry that clads its beautiful face. But from where we stand, I can only help but notice the emaciated sidewalks it stands upon. All of a sudden, the building looked as though it were suffocating, choked by the sewer of cars that surrounds it, sucking its life and energy out. A world-class restaurant sits at its feet, and yet no street life seems to exist on this historic corner. What was once a proud and respected sentinel for the Paris of the West seems now small and sad, dwarfed by the out-scaled spike of the Transamerica tower.
Poor buildings!  All these poor buildings! I say widen those sidewalks, plant the trees, encourage the lingering and spontaneous interaction that once danced amongst these streets. I say, stop choking these buildings! Let them breathe, for God's sakes! Let these buildings breathe!"

Later, we dodge and swerve amongst the perpetual madness of the shopping district. If that trendy, ridiculous word, "Manhattanized," had any relevance or context, this would be it. Everywhere: Walgreens, Starbucks, Gap, Bank of America, Diesel, Forever Twenty One, Seven Eleven, La Boulange... And where can I sit?
Nowhere to sit, silly! How can you shop while sitting?!

We found our way to an inconveniently hidden public space atop a luxury mall on Sutter, and again, looked up. Here before me were the houses of another god, no gothic spires, but communication antennas atop these so-called churches of capitalism. We had, around us, a cross section of San Francisco's history, displayed by the mixing and squeezing of architectural styles throughout the years. Some towers whisper, while others shout. Some buildings conceal the flow of money and power, while others seem to have no poker face at all. But for all their brashness and pride, for all their tactless machismo, they nevertheless contribute to the splendid variety of this wonderful city.