It’s not what you think. The image of San Francisco as America’s Gomorrah doesn’t really make sense once you get in there and walk around. This was once essentially the capital of Western America. Bank of America was here, the Pacific Stock Exchange, and heroes from Paladin to Dirty Harry to Lt. Frank Bullitt plied their trade here. It’s as East Coast a city as you can find in the West: Italian in North Beach, Irish through the pubs of the Richmond, actual subways, and a National League WORLD CHAMPION baseball team that was straight ganked from Upper Manhattan in 1958.
So when the Giants go to the final out, win or lose, you hear the immortal Tony Bennett and his hit of 1962 (the year of the Giants’ first pennant in the City), “I Left My Heart In San Francisco” – which is not an easy song to do for karaoke. Especially with the proprietors trying to run you out so they can seat a bunch of minors. (Dupont Circle is a dodgy place for karaoke anyway.) But whether you sing or hum along or just lean back with a grin as the cheers go up, it’s the anthem – because from here, the only way up is New York, London, Tokyo or Mars.
She loves it. I love it. Mostly, we love it.
I do indeed love it. And I love that we love it.