San Francisco is 49 square miles surrounded by reality. — Paul Kanter, Jefferson Airplane
My mother absolutely adored San Francisco. Like so many before her, she claimed the City as her own. She and I lived there for only three months back in 1952, but somehow the experience never left — her or me — and I was a mere three years old at the time.
My father, a hydraulic/pneumatic engineer at Grumman Aerospace in New York, was assigned to a Navy contract out in northern California at the time. He was there for several weeks alone and missed his family terribly, it seems. So much so that he and a bunch of other Grummanites— and a few sailors who were stationed there — soon took a weekend trip to some newfangled place in the desert called Las Vegas. Dad (who was normally tighter than a tick and would never voluntarily throw money away) gambled — and won — enough to buy two tickets for a transcontinental flight for me and Mom. So Mom packed us up, somehow got us to Idelwild Airport, and together we boarded the PanAm flight for the left coast and the City by the Bay.
Mom and me, 1952
Dad retrieved us at the airport and drove us to what would be our home away from home: a suite in the (now defunct) Alameda Hotel, across the Bay in Oakland. I remember it as a huge, ornate pink stucco building with massive palm trees out in front; alas, I am not a reliable narrator yet at three years of age. But there are some things I absolutely remember.
I remember that one of our stewardesses (we called them that back then) stayed at the hotel from time to time (as did many other airline personnel, I imagine). And I remember her doing cartwheels on the front lawn of the Alameda with me.
I remember being babysat by (in retrospect) painfully young sailors when my parents wanted to get away in the evening. One in particular, a cute guy named Chuck, was famous for making me strawberry shortcakes with gobs of whipped cream (no pun intended). I believe he was my first crush.
I remember going to Children’s Fairyland and climbing in and out of the Old Woman’s Shoe and the Three Pigs houses and the Blue Whale that made my storybooks come to life.
I remember sleeping on a Murphy bed that pulled down from the kitchen wall into the living room, and that a leaky faucet in the kitchen kept me up half the night.
I remember almost falling out the window one afternoon when I saw my father coming up the front walk to the hotel entrance. I was so excited to see my daddy. ‘Bout scared us all half to death!
I remember going to the Cliff House on the Pacific Ocean for lunch. I called it the “Clip House” because I was missing some teeth at the time, but I loved to watch the seals on the rocks outside the window and feel the ocean breeze on my face when we walked around outside.
The Cliff House today
I didn’t know about Eloise at the Plaza yet, but looking back, I must have been a poor, but happy relation. When my folks weren’t giving me the attention I thought I so richly deserved, I remember that I would sneak out of the apartment and go down to the lobby bar. Planting myself on a stool, I would promptly be served a Shirley Temple (extra cherries, please) and the TV (still a fairly new gadget) dial would be clicked over until it found some kind of cartoon show or other suitable programming for a patron such as myself. Maybe Ding Dong School? Possibly Pinky Lee? My memory isn’t that good. I only know that when they finally realized I was missing, my parents always knew just where to find me. Imagine doing that now . . .
So why this walk down Memory Lane? Simply because I left a little piece of my you-know-what in San Francisco and Tim and I recently spent a week there. We stayed in the City, but did the requisite trips to Sonoma and Napa and then spent a night in Cromberg, up in the Sierra Nevadas. More on that adventure another time. Because I’m just getting warmed up. I’ll tell you all about what we did and what we saw. I’ll tell you about the pilgrimage to a few choice spots in the City and then up to Oroville, to learn about where Tim’s ancestors on his mother’s side settled in the mid 1800s — and why. But for now, I want to tell you about our new home away from home, the Hotel Carlton.
A few months ago, when we made the decision to go to San Francisco, I jumped on the internet and found a few remarkable packages. Getting in and out of Richmond, Virginia isn’t always the most cost-effective way to fly, but I found a trip that flew right out of Richmond (through Dallas on the front end and through Detroit on the back end, and there is no ulterior message in that statement). Anyway, the “economy” version of the trip put people up in the Hotel Carlton. I asked a friend who had lived there for years about the location and she said it was fine. Nob Hill. Centrally located. Near Van Ness, Geary, Union Square . . . not far from downtown. Go for it, she said. So we did.
Now, it turns out that the hotel is a little on that edge of Nob Hill that moves into the area known as the Tenderloin which used to not be so good. We had no problems. And when I saw the transvestite with the elegant orange damask sheath dress walking up Jones Street in her dirty blonde wig and single striped stocking, a la the Wicked Witch of the West, sounding a lot like Brenda Vaccaro, complaining to a friend, I thought it was just part of the entertainment. We even went back the next day to Jones Street for a memorable breakfast at Dottie’s True Blue Café, also on Jones Street, where you have to wait on line even at 7:00 in the morning. But that gives you a chance to study the Apologia taped to the door, which is a must-read. And the food is to die for.
But back to the Hotel Carlton. Part of the Joie de Vivre Hotel group — California’s largest boutique hotel collection — known for rehabbing small hotels in unique places, the Carlton has a joy all its own which it generously passes on to its patrons. An extra benefit (which we learned the next day) is that the hotel is built on a strong metal cage and withstood the 7.1 earthquake in 1989 with only one broken window. I could sleep here.
We were warmly welcomed upon arriving (at 12:30 a.m., local time) and found ourselves to be part of a real community for the next week. Complimentary local wine tastings in the lobby every afternoon. Entertainment, ranging from a string quartet from the Golden Gate Symphony one night to the keyboard musings of one of the staff another night. Always choreographed and made jolly by Edgar, another staff member, who made it his mission to be sure that everyone was comfortable, had full glasses and were enjoying themselves. He introduced us to the small English tour groups that came through and was a huge promoter of the hotel’s restaurant, Saha.
Lights in Saha
Serving Arabic fusion cuisine, Saha puts out Yemeni-inspired masterpieces every night and is managed by the husband and wife team of Mohamed and Marmee Aboghanem. Saha (which is a toast to good health) never disappointed – not even for breakfast, where the place is served by the indomitable Kate Rabbit, who brought us the best coffee we’d ever had every morning, along with a unique perspective on life. And speaking of bests . . . Tim had the best salad he’d ever had in his life here: arugula and mint with grilled chicken livers and gorgonzola, sauteed white peaches and honeyed pecans, drizzled with a balsamic vinaigrette. Makes me want to go back just for that . . . I had a curried lentil soup and then curried butternut squash, asparagus and lentils with Israeli couscous. And don’t even ask about Tim’s duck breast with yams. This is no ordinary hotel restaurant, folks. This is a destination.
A presto, Gio and Edgar!
Sure, the rooms at Hotel Carlton are a little small, but the bed was amazing, the products were great and the location couldn’t be beat. Add to that the “family” feel, and it’s a no-brainer that we’ll be going back. And we’ll try other Joie de Vivre hotels as we move up and down the California coast. It was hard to leave — how many hotels can you say that about? So to Edgar and Giovanni and Theo and Kate and anyone else we missed . . . thank you for taking us in and making us part of your lives for a while. We’ll be back and we’ll bring friends with us to meet our new friends in San Francisco. Who needs reality, anyway?
Buon viaggio!
Tim and me and the Pacific Ocean/Cliff House
Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…
