We went up to the historic Cliff House, the fourth of the name to be built on these rocks. Since 1863, the millionaires of this land and the famous people of the world have dined here, watching the sea-lions play on the jagged reefs. It is closed now, and looks as deserted as any of the tumble-down old buildings which surround it.
Along the Golden Gate shore for miles are points of interest and charming homes. Many of the bungalows are surrounded by flowers of every description and color, with apparently no attempt to segregate them. All shades of pink, reds, and purples are jumbled together; the sides of the houses are covered with vines, geraniums, heliotrope, fuchsias, and endless other plants, just one heavenly blotch of color! These little gardens seem to say, “Everything will grow in here; it may not be according to the ethics of landscape gardening, but at least you will love it”—and you do! We were especially struck with the absence of large grounds, even about the more pretentious homes, except, of course, out of the city, where the estates are the last word in beauty and luxury. There is a joyousness about the native Californian that is a revelation. In other cities the people were proud of the homes, or the buildings, or the commercial life, or something man-made; here they just seem to glory in the sunshine, the climate, the scenery, and the flora—in fact, everything God-given. The “joy of living” expresses it—to me, at least. I can better understand now the feeling of California friends living in New York. “The place stifles me; I want to get back to the golden sunshine.” Frankly, I used to think it a pose. I apologize!
Then, people have time here to be polite. On my first street-car ride, an elderly lady was hurrying to get off. “Take your time, madam,” said the polite conductor, and assisted her off. In New York it would be, “Step lively there; step lively!” giving her a shove. In getting on a car my heel caught and I banged my knee. The conductor said, “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.” In New York, if he noticed it at all, the conductor would have looked to see if I had injured the car!
“San Francisco has only one drawback; ’tis hard to leave,” said Rudyard Kipling. That is true. I would like to speak in detail of so many things—the fine hotels and municipal buildings, the beautiful country clubs and golf links; the old Dolores Mission and the churches; the Latin Quarter, Chinatown, and Portsmouth Square, the favorite haunt of Robert Louis Stevenson when a resident here; the Fisherman’s Wharf, where the net-menders sit at their task with stout twine and long wooden needles, like a bit of “Little Italy”; of the fogs that keep everything green in the dry season, and in an hour’s time disappear as if by magic, leaving the sunshine to cheer you; of the steep streets and houses built on “stepladders”; of Nob Hill, with its one-time sumptuous homes, now turned into clubs, and the splendid Fairmont Hotel, built upon the Fair estate. Books have been written on the restaurants of this city—French, Italian, Mexican, Spanish, Greek, and Hungarian—varying in price and in character of cuisine, with many high-class “after theater” cafés, frequented by the more exclusive patrons. Tait’s at the Beach resembles the Shelburne at Brighton Beach or Longvue on the Hudson.
Soon after our arrival came the visit of the President and his party. Politics were discarded. He was the guest of the city. San Francisco certainly spells “hospitality,” and proved it. The decorations left from the welcome to the Pacific fleet and the Motor Convoy were still beautiful, but more were added. “A mass of waving flags” about describes it. A solid wall of humanity lined the streets, with thousands of children carrying fresh flowers and banners. Old Sol, in all his glory, challenged a fog to mar the splendor of his welcome. The luncheon of sixteen hundred women at the famous Palace Hotel spoke of the public spirit of their sex. No Eastern city could boast of a more attractive gathering. It was an interesting sight to see that assemblage sit in silence for over an hour, listening to a man; no matter what their private opinions were, they wanted to hear first-hand the convictions of their President—and they did, in plain Anglo-Saxon terms. But I have digressed, and left the reader and the car on the Ocean Drive.
Yes, this was indeed “the end of the road,” with all of California yet to see. We had traversed the continent from the Atlantic to the Pacific without an accident or a day’s illness, and with only two punctures! We look back on comparatively few discomforts, and many, many pleasures and thrilling experiences, with keen satisfaction.
Unless you really love to motor, take the Overland Limited. If you want to see your country, to get a little of the self-centered, self-satisfied Eastern hide rubbed off, to absorb a little of the fifty-seven (thousand) varieties of people and customs, and the alert, open-hearted, big atmosphere of the West, then try a motor trip. You will get tired, and your bones will cry aloud for a rest cure; but I promise you one thing—you will never be bored! No two days were the same, no two views were similar, no two cups of coffee tasted alike. In time—in some time to come—the Lincoln Highway will be a real transcontinental boulevard. But don’t wish this trip on your grandchildren! The average motorist goes over five thousand miles each season, puttering around his immediate locality. Don’t make a “mental hazard” of the distance. My advice to timid motorists is, “Go.”
I have not tried to give a detailed description of anything in this brief narrative of our trip. Just glimpses here and there of the day’s run, which may stimulate some “weak sister” to try her luck, or perchance spur the memory of those who have “gone before us.”
EXPENSES
In giving a table of our expenses, it is unimportant to give in detail the amount of the tips to porters or chambermaids, or to state what the hotel bill was in each place. That depends upon the individual—whether you care to have more or less expensive accommodations, or to what extent you care to indulge in “extras.”