Atlanta's blast-furnace heat engulfs me as I return from seven days in chilly, wind-swept, energizing San Francisco. San Francisco, with reliable and diverse mass transit, encourages walking, although the hills can be challenging.
Beneath the energy, the love of food and drink, sensuality, music, talk and literature, an undercurrent of dread is sometimes palpable. California, once the paragon of the nation, is going broke. Some wish it to collapse as the necessary prelude to rebuilding. Some of the activity shows the edge of desperation. The homeless and the insane wander aimlessly. The sea lions that gather besides Fishermen's Wharf are more adaptable to life.
The old city has always swung between such extremes. Half the population keeps an ear to the ground, fearing the distant rumble that grows into the long-predicted major earthquake. People complain about the erosion of city services and the public schools. But signs proclaim the frequency of street cleaning.
Still, the city is beautiful. Was Berlin so beautiful in 1910, Paris in 1939? Has the nation's catastrophe already occurred, our apparently bottomless recession, or are still greater ones to come?
I took the bus down Geary Street to 34th Avenue and walked several blocks to where the city disappeared. On one side, Lincoln Park Golf Course, a shabby but lovely layout, matching Pebble Beach with its oceanside shots. On the other, the Legion of Honor. For several blissful hours, I wondered its rooms, walking through the history of art from the medieval age to the rise of the Impressionists. Although I like Monet and Manet and Pizzaro, I realized that the medieval painteres, with their deep piety and strong belief, inspired more passion. I'll probably go see the Monet Water Lillies show at the High here in Atlanta, but impressionism looks pallid and insubstantial. The Legion honors those who gave their lives in World War I, and the gauzy colors and dreamy landscapes of Impressionists reveal a depleted civilization.
After the museum, I walked through the breezy, overcast day toward the ocean. First, I explored a trail rising up a hill from a gate. At the top, a sign identified the wildflower-edged trail as the Battle of the Bulge Memorial. I'd arrived at the back of the Veterans Adminstration Hospital. Walking back down the trail, I marked signs that had names of the famous places of the battle carved into their wood.
Heading farther toward the ocean, I discovered another trail that led me to high cliffs, looking down upon the wave-dashed rocks. A sense of deja vu dizzied me. Wait, I had seen this before, in the Hitchcock movie "Vertigo." Later, my daughter confirmed for me that scenes from the movie had been shot here and at the Legion of Honor.
After excursions beside the Cliff House and Ocean Beach, I somehow straggled back to Geary Street and the No. 38 bus that took me back to my hotel in Japan Town.
A Zoo Story: I walked all the way down Geary Street from our hotel to downtown, having bought a ticket to the Saturday matinee of "Home at the Zoo" by Edward Albee at the American Conservatory Theater.
Going downhill on Geary was quite an adventure. Cheap eateries, ragged hotels, and rough-looking men and women inspired a bracing mixture of daring, fear and amusement. At last, I arrived at the vintage Geary Street theater, built in 1910, with opulent chandelieurs, gold-bedecked ceilings, and elegant boxes.
Unfortunately, my ticket was in the second balcony, and climbling down the narrow steps to the first row, I was seized by my vertigo, worst than over the cliffs. At 15 minutes to the raising of the curtain, I hurried back to the box office and exchanged my ticket for one in the first balcony, much less frightening.
Alas, I found the play less exciting than the theater of Geary Street. Albee in old age had concocted a first act to pair with "Zoo Story," the one-act smash that marked the beginning of his career. The dialogue took a long time to ignite into any kind of dramatic frission, and the couple's dialogue about their sexual frustrations struck me as unoriginal and tedious.
The second act, the original "Zoo Story," was much better, but the actor playing the street crazy Jerry spoke in an uncovincing, overly enunciated theatrical voice. Toward the end, the play at last lifted to a higher dramatic plane, but by then my enthusiasm had dissapated. At least the performance gave me stronger appreciation for Atlanta's comparable Alliance Theater, as well as other troupes in Atlanta. i had expected more from San Francisco theater. Well, at least I got a little vertigo and some old furnishings for my $41. Back outside, I immersed myself again in the drama of the street.
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