Golden Gate Bridge

It's weird but I often speak about San Francisco around our house. I always say the same thing:

"It's the most beautiful city in the country."

Of course, my wife and kids look at me a little strange as they have other thoughts about the city. They think of the 49ers or the Giants or gays.

The outside perception doesn't always match.

Yet I remember writing a letter back home to an old college friend and telling her that "everywhere you look there's a post card."

The view from the Golden Gate bridge, of course, being extremely post card worthy.

Yet there are two distinct stories that I recall about that bridge.

1). I arrived in San Francisco with my mother. Dad picked us up at the airport and just for a couple of weeks we were the only three out there. College had ended for me in May and the plan was for me to stay with Dad for a few weeks until the rest of the kids were done with school.

We were driving across the bridge in the old Ford Galaxy. A huge car with a tremendous sprawling backseat. I was back there with my nose pressed to the glass as I tried to take in the mesmerizing sites as we crossed the famous bridge for the first time.

Both Mom and Dad were smoking cigarettes. Dad was pointing out where Alcatraz was. Mom had finished her smoke. She flicked it out her window...

...and it blew back into mine.

"Oh shit," she said.

The smoke was on the floor where Dad had stuffed a whole bunch of scrap work papers.

The papers were suddenly smoking too.

I was hopping up and down to try and put out the fire.

Dad was driving and yelling.

Mom was leaning over the seat trying to point out where the smoking butt was.

I finally stomped out the small fire.

All three of us missed the scenic ride over.

I can remember asking Dad to turn around so I could look around.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "The house is in Mill Valley. The job is in San Francisco. You'll get sick of looking at the sites."

But I never did.

As many times as we crossed that bridge, I always searched out all the beauty, even through the fog that rolled in most mornings.

2). It was a Sunday morning. This time it was just me and Dad in the car. We were working overtime at the job.

"How much money do you have?" Dad asked.

"Not a nickel," I said proudly.

Dad's face showed alarm.

"You're making two grand a week, where's your money?"

"I never cashed my check," I said.

"Me neither," he answered. "And it's gonna' be a problem."

"Why?" I asked.

We were just getting to the entrance to the bridge.

"Cause we have just enough gas to cross the bridge."

We laughed.

As it turned out, we just barely had enough gas to do that. We crossed the bridge and the car started to sputter. We were on a road with a decent sized incline. Dad coasted down it and pulled to the side of the road.

Now remember: We hadn't even dreamed of a cell phone by then.

"Do you have a dime for a phone call?" Dad asked.

"Nothing!" I said.

He dug around in his pockets. We looked through the garbage on the floor.

"Go ask that guy for a dime," Dad said, pointing to a clearly homeless man who was sitting against a building enjoying the morning fog.

"Are you freaking kidding me?" I asked. "We made over five grand this week and you want me to ask a homeless guy to borrow a dime?"

We started laughing in the car.

We just kept laughing as we stood outside the car deciding which of us was going to ask the guy.

Finally, Dad did.

And here's the funny part.

The guy had a dime!

He fished it out the front pocket of his torn jeans and flipped it to Dad.

A half an hour later a man from work brought us a few gallons of gas. Dad borrowed a twenty off our co-worker, walked across the street and handed it to the homeless guy.

So.

There you have it.

The stuff that comes to mind when I see a photo of the Golden Gate Bridge.

I get the 'I left my heart in San Francisco' stuff.

And I'm smiling as I write this because it made me think of laughing with Dad.