North by North Beach

My random walk today (yes, I finally managed to do this again) took me and the kid through North Beach--the northern part of it, mostly, the part between Washington Square and Fisherman's Wharf, though I did move quickly down Grant Street and up one block of Columbus. It was heartening to see that many of my favorite eateries and cafes are still there, though I didn't stop in any of those, choosing instead to feed the baby his lunch in Washington Square (surrounded very quickly by aggressive pigeons); then I gave him an opportunity to walk barefoot in the grass, pushing the stroller in front of him, then, to go for a ride on a swing. I did manage to grab a cappuccino-to-go in an out-of-the-way cafe near where we were parked, before putting my son back in the car and heading home; the cappuccino was, tragically, mediocre beyond words. (I say "tragically" because one of my best memories of my early days in San Francisco is lingering over a book and an excellent cappuccino in one of those aforementioned North Beach cafes.)

I wish that I could say that this moment of flanerie gave me a new perspective or made me feel less like a harried housewife and mother. I was hoping for that, perhaps too intensely (how often have I made it to North Beach in the last year or so? Uh, never). For a few brief moments, perhaps, I felt the faintest waves of relaxation and invigoration pass through me. Walking up Powell Street towards Washington Square, I noticed just how gorgeous the weather was--the air sun-kissed and breeze-kissed, just a trace of wind, and the trees and houses almost sparkling in the clean air. And it reminded me, for a few seconds, of the East Side of New York, or certain neighborhoods in Paris--there was a whiff of creativity in the air...I think it was mostly the shops and businesses I saw on Powell Street (little out-of-the-way establishments, like a hapkido studio, a skateboard design shop, a "cheese school," and a center for the study of urasenke, or Japanese tea ceremony). The actual people weren't all that inspiring, with, perhaps, one exception.

As my son chortled his pleasure about some obscure sight, or just some feeling he was having, a middle-aged man smiled quietly at him. The man, who was seated at a sidewalk table outside one of my favorite Columbus Street cafes, was on the small side--in fact, his head and face were surprisingly small--and he was well-dressed in a quiet, smoking-jacket-and-dark-clothes kind of way; a book by Ian McEwan (in hardback) sat on the table in front of him, next to his coffee. Everything about this man said "not-too-loud." He wasn't the kind of man you would expect to be interested in babies or toddlers. And yet, he beamed at my son--just at him, as if sharing a private moment with him. I don't know exactly why I found this so charming; I think because I felt that this man would remember my son long after the moment had passed. And that I would also, somehow, remember this man.

But I was hoping for more than that from North Beach...I don't know if you can go home again, but you can't go back to your favorite San Francisco neighborhoods again and have them be what they once were, that much is certain.