 “Only one word can sum up this experience,” said Anthony Bourdain on his first visit to San Francisco's Tonga Room. “Cowabunga!” Did you do anything loony during the pandemic lockdown? Of course you did, but don’t worry, I’m not asking you to reveal details. (Unless you really want to — in which case, I’m all ears.) Europeans under strict lockdown, allowed outside only to fetch groceries and walk pets, took to strolling around with their cats, birds, even goldfish. Not all at the same time, but still. My sister-in-law and her sister entertained themselves carving famous faces into potatoes. And one evening in 2020, I took Rich “out” for drinks by recreating San Francisco’s famous Tonga Room and Hurricane Bar in our Seville apartment. The Tonga Room is one of the city’s goofier watering holes, hidden in the lower depths of the luxurious Fairmont Hotel on top of posh Nob Hill. It started out as a 75-foot indoor swimming pool where celebrity guests could show off 1929’s newfangled form-fitting swimsuits. In 1945, when the tiki bar craze was in high gear, the Fairmont hired MGM’s leading set designer to transform the pool into a lagoon surrounded by thatched huts where celebrity guests could drink rum from ceramic coconut mugs. Every fifteen minutes a “hurricane” swept the room with dramatic booms of thunder and heavy “rain” falling into the lagoon.  Musicians play in a thatch-roofed barge floating in the lagoon. Rich took me there on one of our earliest dates, and I hope you won’t think I’m totally shallow and tasteless for saying I loved it; it was the most hilarious and romantic bit of kitsch I’d ever seen. In 2020, I did my best to recreate the ambiance in our apartment. Sadly my shower nozzle didn’t reach far enough to recreate the downpour; upon reflection that was probably fortunate for our security deposit and our neighbors. It's been forty years since we visited the actual Tonga Room, and this week, we decided to go back. They don’t open until 5:00 pm, so we took a later ferry, lingered over lunch, and visited a few other landmarks along the way.  The Old Ship Saloon sits at Pacific and Battery streets, once the city's shoreline. Our first port of call was the Old Ship Saloon, once an actual ship called the Arkansas that ran aground during a storm off Bird Island — now Alcatraz — in 1849. She was towed to the city, and while passengers and crew rushed off to pan for gold, a savvy entrepreneur turned her into a saloon. The Arkansas served as a seaman’s bar, boarding house, and bordello before sinking and becoming part of the landfill that expanded San Francisco’s shoreline. The Old Ship Saloon stands proudly over her remains, providing a warm welcome and first-rate food. My quesadilla ($16) was a marvelously creamy mix of Jack cheese and lime-accented guacamole inside a crispy-seared tortilla.  The quesadillas at the Old Ship Saloon are irresistible. Next we visited the Cable Car Museum, an extraordinarily LOUD space where you get to watch (AND HEAR) the winding wheels pulling the steel cables to haul the cars uphill. Our ears were still ringing as we climbed Nob Hill and stepped into the vast silence of Grace Cathedral. Founded in 1849, Grace Church attracted miners who often dropped little envelopes of gold dust into the collection basket. That building burned down in 1906, paving the way for an upgrade that wasn’t completed until 1965. The Episcopalian diocese took its time creating an oddball blend of European tradition and San Franciscan what's-happening-now. Grace is built of modern concrete in French Gothic style patterned on Notre Dame de Paris. The front doors are reproductions cast from the original Ghiberti doors on the Florence Baptistry. The stained glass windows portray 1100 figures from Adam to Einstein (with his famous formula). The floor of the nave, copied from the medieval labyrinth in the cathedral in Chartres, France, is used for everything from candlelight meditation to yoga classes. The formal signing of the UN Charter happened at the Veteran’s War Memorial a mile away, but much of the heavy negotiating took place in meeting rooms at the Fairmont Hotel, just a block from the cathedral. While the hotel is clearly proud of its supporting role in re-defining world order, its most cherished bragging rights come from being the place where, in 1961, Tony Bennet first sang his iconic I Left My Heart in San Francisco. Shortly after his 90th birthday in 2016, Tony returned to the Fairmont to watch the city put up a statue of him and rename that block of Mason Street “Tony Bennet Avenue.”  Two crooners with a lotta heart After paying his respects to Tony, Rich said, “Hey, it’s nearly five. Come on. The entrance to the Tonga Room is around the side.” We turned onto California Street and trotted downhill.  We found the sign, but not the bar; there was nothing but an unassuming side door into a gymnasium. I said, “You don’t think they’ve turn the lagoon back into a swimming pool?” We trudged all around the outside of the enormous hotel complex, but aside from the old sign, there was no indication the Tonga Room — or the big awning we remembered — had ever existed.  This awning had apparently vanished, taking the Tonga room with it. Returning to the lobby, we were given elaborate instructions that led us through a maze of hotel corridors to the gym. Just past that we found the Tonga Room entrance, where people were being separated into the haves — as in “I have a reservation and can walk right in” — and the have nots — which would be us. “You need a reservation just to have a drink here?” I asked incredulously. I realize customs change over four decades, but hey… I went to find the bouncer. “We just want a quick drink,” I explained. “You see, we came here —" He didn’t even look at me as he snapped, “You can go in IF you stand at the bar. You can ONLY order drinks. NO food.” Yikes! In we went. The Tonga Room’s thatched huts and phony hurricanes were as kitsch as ever. The bartender, who had clearly gone to the same charm school as the bouncer, pushed a plastic price list in our direction without looking up. “Yeah?”  Last time we were there, drinks at the Tonga Room looked like this. Rich ordered a Mai Tai and the bartender reached for a plain glass. I’d heard that just this year they’d stopped using ceramic mugs shaped like coconuts and tiki gods, but I spotted a few on an upper shelf. “Any chance we could get it in one of those?” He looked at me as if I’d asked him to strip naked and perform a fan dance on the bar. “No.”  Nowadays, this is what a Mai Tai ($23.90) at the Tonga Room looks like. “I have to tell you,” Rich said as he took the first sip, standing awkwardly near the bar, “I prefer the Tonga Room you made at home during the pandemic.”  My version of the Tonga Room, Seville, April, 2020 I remembered how much fun we’d had in our version of the Tonga Room, listening to The Lion Sleeps Tonight and laughing as we recalled all the goofiest bars we knew — a remarkably long and varied list, as you can imagine — and watching the sun slowly set over the rooftops of Seville. “I have to agree,” I said. “And you want to know something else? It’s going to be at least another forty years before I come back here again.”  The Old Ship Saloon is at Pacific and Battery, several blocks from the waterfront. The others places I visited are all on Nob Hill — a steep climb, so wear good walking shoes or consider an Uber or Waymo driverless taxi! This post is part of my ongoing series OUT TO LUNCH IN CHEAP & CHEERFUL SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods so I can check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? And where should we eat afterwards? These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. BROWSE PREVIOUS POSTS HERE DON'T MISS OUT! If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so I can let you know when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. [email protected] ALREADY SUBSCRIBED? If you ever miss a post announcement, please check your spam folder. 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 The longest short cut in the world I never learn. Really, I ought to have my head examined. “We should go out to Angel Island,” Rich has been saying all summer. “Take a picnic.” I was tempted. I’d never been there before, and Rich had fond memories of a visit 50 years earlier; cue the montage of soaring trees and spectacular views of the San Francisco Bay. On the other hand, the island is prone to cold and fog in summer, and every time we considered going, the weather report was so hideous we abandoned the plan for fear of hypothermia. Until this week. “It’s going to be sunny all day Thursday,” Rich reported excitedly. And before I knew it, he’d booked the ferry tickets.  Angel Island ferryboat But Thursday had its own ideas about the weather and chose to dawn gray and chilly, with gusty winds that didn’t dispel the fog, just sent it slithering down collars and up shirtsleeves. I huddled in my light jacket, glad it was such a short ferry ride across Raccoon Strait, named for the British 26-gun warship, HMS Raccoon, which was damaged at sea and limped into San Francisco Bay for repairs in 1814. No doubt His Majesty’s sailors felt right at home in our pea-soupers. The man at the information desk sold us a map for a dollar and told us the island’s major historic site — the US Immigration Station — was a mile up the coast. “Don’t worry, there’s a shortcut.” He waved vaguely toward the northeast. “Just follow the signs.”  We found the trailhead and started up. And up. And up. Haphazardly placed wooden risers, eroded dirt steps, erratic or missing handrails — these were conditions I often encounter in other countries, inspiring me to remark, “You’d never get away with anything this unsafe in the US!” And yet, here we were in a State Park on our way to a National Historic Landmark. How standards have fallen. I froze during the first part of the endless upwards slog; then the sun came out, and I sweltered. Emerging at last onto the paved Perimeter Road, I stood gasping for breath. And then I was gasping in astonishment as a shuttle drove by, filled with holiday makers taking their ease, waving cheerily as they breezed past. “There’s a shuttle? Why didn’t anyone tell me about a shuttle?”  The shuttle that I missed completely Slogging upward, we met a young couple trudging downward. “Did you see that shuttle?” I asked. The woman rolled her eyes. “Yeah. They refused to let us on. Apparently you have to sign up for a tour. In advance.” We heaved “had-I-but-known” sighs and soldiered on past one another. Eventually Rich and I spotted our destination and began the steep decent to the Immigration Station.  Immigration Station entrance, with modern concrete additions From 1910 to 1940, nearly a million people passed through its doors, each one hoping to build a new life here. And if you’re thinking “Oh, just like Ellis Island,” think again. Although many stories of hardship emerged from Ellis Island, apparently that immigration portal was “Welcome to Disneyland” compared to Angel Island. The difference? Here they processed mostly Chinese arrivals. The late 19th century was rough there, thanks to droughts, floods, and two opium wars fought against the British, who objected to the loss of revenues when the Chinese government cracked down on the drug trade. Thousands of Chinese farmers and laborers were destitute, and having heard about California from relatives and friends who came over to work in the Gold Rush and build the Transcontinental Railway, they decided to join them.  Chinese immigrants detained at the Immigration Center in 1923. Photo: US National Archives Unfortunately, America's post-Civil War economy was in a downturn. Looking for someone to blame, public opinion and laws began to demonize Chinese-Americans for “taking jobs” and “draining public resources.” Everyone blithely ignored the fact that in those days, most Chinese immigrants were healthy adult males who provided cheap labor that enabled American businesses to prosper, and who required little or nothing from government schools, hospitals, or other public services. It didn’t matter. By 1883, a series of laws led to the Chinese Exclusion Act designed to screen out “undesirable” workers; only wealthy professionals were allowed in. Officials would go out to arriving ships and fast track the first and second class passengers, including most Europeans and a few prosperous Asians. Everyone else was herded into crowded barracks for weeks or months of interrogation and delays at Angel Island’s Immigration Center. Standing in those barracks, I tried to imagine what it must have been like: families separated, new mothers caring for babies in cramped quarters, men never permitted outside except in a tiny exercise yard. Hope was always in short supply. Heartache was carved into the wooden walls in the form of poetry.  Of course, there were many health and safety complaints — all ignored, until the Administration Building burned to the ground in 1940. Then the whole shebang was moved to San Francisco. And just three years later, to please China, our new ally in the Pacific, we finally repealed the Chinese Exclusion Act. I’d like to report that attitudes towards immigrants have become much more enlightened since then. Sadly, many Americans still demonize new arrivals — ignoring all evidence that immigrants actually help this country. You don't have to become rich or famous to help the US economy. “How immigrant workers in US have helped boost job growth and stave off a recession,” reads a recent AP headline. “More workers filling more jobs and spending more money has helped drive economic growth and create still-more job openings... Though U.S. inflation remains elevated, it has plummeted from its levels of two years ago.” And you’ll be happy to hear “There is no migrant crime surge,” says The New York Times. “In reality, immigrants are less likely to commit crimes than people born in the U.S. Immigrants have had lower incarceration rates — a measure for crime — than native-born Americans for at least 150 years, a recent study concluded.” The influx of immigrants in New York, Chicago, and Denver coincides with lower murder rates. Texas borderlands have less violent crime than the rest of the state or the nation. The statistics went on and on, but frankly, my eyes soon glazed over. After wandering around the Immigration Station a while, Rich and I suddenly realized we’d have to hotfoot it down to the port if we were going to have time to eat our picnic lunch before the ferry home.  "Goodness, Rich, it wouldn't be a picnic without ants." When I was a kid, this was one of my favorite Charles Addams cartoons. From the New Yorker, 1949 “I think we’ll be on time, so long as we take the shortcut,” Rich said. I groaned. As I stumbled down the raggedy steps, I thought about my own ancestors, who had the good fortune to slip into this country before the government established official immigration procedures in 1891. Who knows if my folks could have passed the stringent tests given today’s new arrivals? And I remembered Rich’s grandmother, who braved a terrible ocean voyage in steerage from Ireland to Ellis Island, vowing she’d never to set foot on a ship again (and she never did). Let’s face it, 97.1% of US residents are immigrants or descendants of immigrants. Nobody has exclusive rights here. As President Franklin D. Roosevelt said, “Remember, remember always, that all of us, and you and I especially, are descended from immigrants and revolutionists.”  Angel Island can be reached by ferries from Tiburon and San Francisco. They don't run often, so be sure to check the return times carefully. And remember: book in advance if you want to ride in the shuttle! SUBSCRIBERS If you miss a post announcement, please check your spam folder. Internet security is in a frenzy these days. This post is part of my ongoing series OUT TO LUNCH IN CHEAP & CHEERFUL SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods so I can check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? And where should we eat afterwards? These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. BROWSE PREVIOUS POSTS HERE DON'T MISS OUT! If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so I can let you know when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. [email protected] And check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  Cop cars and yellow tape block the intersection in front of the library. No matter how often you see it on TV, it’s still shocking to come home IRL (in real life) to find your street blocked off by cop cars and crime scene tape. When it happened to us the other day, I craned my neck searching for clues while Rich drove slowly past our street and tried to turn down the next — only to be stopped a fledgling police officer. “You can’t come this way,” the kid announced importantly. “Why not?” asked Rich. “It’s confidential.” Confidential? Who was he kidding? This is San Anselmo, a town so small that if you sneeze walking out your front door, the first person you see will hand you a Kleenex and the next three will inquire about your allergies. Rich drew breath to protest, but I said, “Let it go. If he tells you, he may have to kill you. Besides, we’ll find out soon enough.” We circled home the back way and discovered, with considerable relief, that our house was not part of the hullaballoo. Neighbors soon filled us in; someone had called in a bomb threat to the nearby public library because of Drag Story Hour.  Notice posted on the town's bulletin board Now, I realize that Drag Story Hour for kids is not standard Saturday morning fare in all public libraries across this great nation. But here in the San Francisco Bay Area (and many other parts of the US), it’s become a tradition during June’s LGBTQ+ Pride Month. “Join us for stories, songs, and laughs,” said my town’s website. “Drag Story Hour is a form of performance art that captures the imagination and play of childhood while giving kids a glamorous and positive view of a person being their authentic self.” For anyone who can’t fully embrace the idea, there’s a simple solution: skip the story hour. But that didn’t satisfy one disgruntled individual, whose sentiments could only be expressed with a bomb threat. Because nothing teaches children about decent behavior like lawless aggression and false statements to the police. No bomb was found, and the crime scene tape and cop cars soon disappeared. Still visible all over town were rainbow flags and store displays celebrating Pride Month. And this was nothing compared to what was happening in San Francisco, currently gearing up for the June 30th extravaganza known as the Pride Parade.  The Pride Parade is always a ripsnorter. That's Mayor London Breed (center) waving the rainbow flag on a float last year. Photo: Kori Suzuki/KQED “Let’s head over to the Castro,” I suggested to Rich. “Show our support.” The Castro is San Francisco’s famous “gayborhood.” It began gathering strength during WWII, when the US military decided to discharge thousands of trained soldiers in the erroneous belief their sexual preferences somehow made them unfit to fight Nazis. Fortunately this attitude no longer prevails, and these days the US Department of Defense officially honors Pride Month. "Pride is a celebration of generations of LGBTQ+ people who have fought bravely to live openly and authentically,” Commander-in-Chief Joe Biden said last month. "This country is stronger and more just when America's leaders reflect the full diversity of our nation." As the Castro lies six miles from the Ferry Terminal, Rich and I hopped on one of the F line’s vintage trollies, bought from other cities, refurbished, and now providing a pleasantly retro ride. We stepped off near the intersection of Market and Castro Streets and found ourselves, as expected, surrounded by rainbows. The rainbow flag, now flying worldwide, was created here thanks to SF Supervisor Harvey Milk. Arriving from New York in 1972, he became the unofficial mayor of Castro Street, rallied the LGBTQ+ community, and in 1977 became the first openly gay man elected to public office in California. Knowing the community needed a symbol, Milk asked gay activist and artist Gilbert Baker to dream up something for 1978’s San Francisco Gay Freedom Day. Apparently Gilbert was out on a dance floor when he had an epiphany about a rainbow; historians believe drugs may have been involved, and I’m inclined to believe them. Gilbert’s vision was translated into a 30 x 60 foot flag with eight colors. Later versions eliminated the pink and turquoise because those colors were hard to find in traditional flag fabrics. Go figure. Since then there have been countless permutations of the rainbow flag, and the original, damaged and thought lost for many years, was rediscovered, repaired, and returned home to San Francisco in 2021. You can see it in the small, deeply moving GLBT Historical Society Museum just off Castro Street. Younger readers may not remember the days when same-sex canoodling was a very serious crime throughout America. Vice squads regularly raided LGBTQ+ hangouts, publishing names and photos in the newspaper, destroying careers, families, reputations, and lifelong friendships overnight. And then came jail. Expressing non-conformist sexuality was not for the faint of heart. Thanks to activists, laws began to change (slowly) in the 1960s. One magnificent gesture of defiance came in 1973 after lesbians Mary Ellen Cunha and Peggy Forster took over Twin Peaks Tavern, a 1930s Irish pub on Castro Street. Years earlier, the tavern’s huge windows had been painted black so wives couldn’t peer in to see if their husbands were at the bar drinking away their paycheck. The two lesbians had the paint scraped off, sending a message to the community: it was time to stop hiding. “The bar has come to be a cornerstone within the community,” wrote Petey Barma and Bret Parker, who made the delightful Through the Windows documentary about Twin Peaks Tavern. “A place that changed the face of gay bars in the 70's, a refuge during the AIDS crisis in the 90's, and throughout it all, a gathering place: our very own ‘Cheers for Queers.’" Rich and I promised ourselves beers at Twin Peaks later, but first we visited the museum, which honors the 40 million who died of HIV/AIDS. Then we strolled through the Pink Triangle Memorial, America’s first permanent landmark dedicated to LGBTQ+ Europeans persecuted by the Nazis during the Holocaust.  Pink Triangle Memorial is small in size but packs a powerful message. To refresh our spirits after such sobering reflections, we had a hearty lunch in the whimsical 24-hour diner Orphan Andy’s. When the proprietor set down my giant bowl of soup, I said, “Wow, that’s generous!” They grinned. “It’s because we love you.” Awwww… We got an equally warm welcome at nearby Twin Peaks Tavern. I soon learned it was Mike the bartender’s first day, but everyone else looked like they’d been ensconced there since it opened, gazing contentedly out the windows and chatting with old friends. There and everywhere in the Castro, people were kind and friendly. Nobody seemed to embody the attitude I’d seen on a joking storefront sign, “I don’t mind people being heterosexual as long as they act gay in public.” I felt accepted for who I was. And that’s what the Castro is really all about.  We finally got our beers at Twin Peaks. The whole day provided the perfect antidote to the mean-spirited attack on our public library’s Drag Story Hour. Isolating ourselves from those we view as different is not the answer. As Harvey Milk put it, “How can people change their minds about us if they don’t know who we are?” And underneath it all, how different are we, really? “We’re all born naked,” points out cross-dressing performance artist RuPaul, “and the rest is drag.”  For more, check out: The Ten Best Things to Do in the Castro District Twin Peaks Tavern Documentary: Through the Windows Milk, the story of Harvey Milk's work & assassination Subscribers If you don't get a post announcement every week, check your spam folder. Internet security is in a frenzy these days. This post is part of my ongoing series OUT TO LUNCH IN CHEAP & CHEERFUL SAN FRANCISCO My goal is to discover some of San Francisco's most colorful neighborhoods so I can check out what's really going on in this zany town. Are we in a doom loop? Already on the rebound? Still fabulous? And where should we eat afterwards? These and other questions will be explored in upcoming posts. BROWSE PREVIOUS POSTS HERE DON'T MISS OUT! If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so I can let you know when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. [email protected] And check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it. |
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