I Left A Lot in San Francisco

The difference between being a preteen and a child on a family vacation is like the comparing Mount Everest to the dirt hill kids jump their bikes over. It’s a continental divide.

During my preteen years, I wanted to be cool and strived to seem grown-up. And I definitely did not want to act like a little kid. Unfortunately, touring around any city like the Von Traps with parents and little siblings in tow is the antithesis of all I held dear.

On our month-long family trek across the country, embarrassment was as common as fast food and motels, making me want to distance myself to closely remain outside their bubble and keep my percieved coolness intact. But my family had their own agenda.

My mom always wanted to keep us together and make sure everyone wiped their hands before and after they touched anything and ate. My dad often made inappropriate and all the time goofy jokes, while my brother tried to remain invisible and my little sister enthusiastically garnered attention.

But our trip to San Francisco showed me a humility that I would never forget, no matter how hard I tried.

As usual, plans for the day included tourist traps on our never ending quest to find any and every offbeat, strange and odd site that no one has ever seen.

Case in point, a little known and nearly forgotten historical remnant called Fort Point, lying in the darkness beneath the Golden Gate bridge.

And no one did know about it, as evidenced by the lack of any tourists.

The National Park Service man, dressed in Civil War Union garb, seemed elated to see us, making me wonder if we were the only ones he had seen that day, that week, or maybe even that month.

He gave us a brief tour of the very small encampment and described its intended but never consummated use to guard the west coast. Then we all received a little certificate of our visit. As usual, bored and mortified, I watched the rest of my family seemingly enjoy what I considered torture.

Not to be undone, we then visited the mysterious Winchester House. I didn’t know much about it, but standing in the gift shop listening to teasers of its eclectic owner Sarah Winchester and the tales of her curious house, I was intrigued. An avid, Nancy Drew reader, I was ready for something interesting to see and hear.

But, while popular, the Winchester house was what my father considered a tourist ripoff, that charged exorbitant fees for a tour. A sentiment he loudly expressed in the gift shop.

“Can you believe what they’re charging. Do they want us to pay for a new addition to this place?”

Instead, we bought slides of the home and a book chronicling the mystery. Once again, I was annoyed that the one thing that interested me blew out in a puff of smoke.

My mother sympathized and to placate my angst decided to buy us our favorite candy at a nearby store. Both notorious chocolate lovers, my parents rarely passed up a candy store. Unlike the rest of my family, chocolate was not my delicacy. Strawberry Twizzlers were my confection of choice.

So as my father hilariously negotiated the treacherous ups and downs of the streets of San Francisco like a Hollywood stunt driver, I snuffed out my annoyance by rolling my eyes and chewing on licorice ropes.

Finally, we arrived at Fisherman’s Wharf and its iconic ship’s wheel sign. My dad was charged in anticipation. It culminated many of his favorite things, boats, the open water and eating fish.

All day he gushed about walking around the marina, seeing the boats and picking out his own fish to eat at the restaurant.

Unfortunately, no one else shared his affinity for boats or fish. But as veterans of many boat shows, we knew we just had to find a perch or bench nearby and let him enjoy it. My brother always dutifully accompanied my father without complaint. The reward and burden of the only boy.

But as both my mother and I have bloodhound noses and are extremely sensitive to smells, very soon the pungent odors of the raw fish buffet on ice began to take effect. But oddly, it was my little sister who chimed in first.

“Mommy, this place is stinky,” she whined.

Covering her mouth and nose with a scarf from her purse, my mother nodded in agreement and gave my sister, some crayons and a coloring book to distract her.

However, despite holding my nose and trying to read from the Winchester book, I was lightheaded and my stomach felt queasy.

“Mom, I don’t feel good,” I said.

In a typical mother move, she placed her hands on my forehead.

“You’re not hot. I’m sure it’s just the fishy smell. I know, it’s disgusting. Hopefully your father will be back soon and we will go into the restaurant. It shouldn’t smell bad in there.”

I learned a long time before that, waiting for my dad was an inevitable pastime.

Yet try as I might to occupy my brain with the strange history of the Winchester Mansion, my stomach had different ideas. The combination of nearly an entire bag of licorice and the affrunting fish aroma was too much. I began to swoon and sweat.

“I think it’s getting worse.” I told my mother.

“You do look pale. Let’s find your father and get out of here,” my mother said and grabbed my sister’s hand as we scurried down the pier and quickly met my father and brother coming toward the restaurant.

“Susie doesn’t feel well. I think we need to skip the restaurant and get back to the hotel,” she told him.

I saw my father’s joyous demeanor instantly deflate. He’d been salivating over this fish all day only to be denied, but he didn’t even argue. He couldn’t miss my pale and perspiring face.

“OK. But we need to take the trolley car to the hotel as we parked the car in an overnight parking area. I’ll get you guys settled and go back for the luggage.”

He kindly put his arm around me to prop me up as we walked past the ships wheel and left Fisherman‘s Wharf.

The further we got from the smelly fish, I began to feel slightly better. And sitting at the window seat of the open trolley with the wind in my face, at first I was relieved, but it’s jolting movements made my stomach turn somersaults and it wasn’t long before I literally left my mark on the streets of San Francisco.

No matter what my family did to embarrass me on this trip, it never reached the heights of my own gastrointestinal acrobatics. I was thoroughly embarrassed, but this time, at my own hand.

Remarkably, my family didn’t say anything. They didn’t tease or cast any aspersions my way. We just moved on with the trip as though it didn’t happen. A hard but good lesson for an anxious teen. Families can be goofy, but they can also have your back in time of need.

(c) Suzanne Rudd Hamilton 2024