I walked by a lady with a cat on her head.
She was standing at the corner of Geary and Powell, diagonal from Union Square in downtown San Francisco. The cat was white with black spots, wearing a pink collar and, apparently, a leash that kept it from darting into traffic. It stared out at the swirling crowd with wide eyes and no apparent interest in coming down from its perch, as if this all was quite normal.
As I recall, the lady held a piece of cardboard, probably a sign asking for handouts. I caught sight of the cat out of the corner of my eye and the rest of the details registered almost subliminally as the flow of pedestrians and the desire to beat the light carried me through the intersection and on up the street.
By the time I had a chance to look back, I was about a block away and couldn't see either of them. It was as if they hadn't even been there at all.
There is no greater illustration for the disparity in our nation than pedestrian traffic in a big-city shopping district. In the shadows of the glittering lights and store windows filled with the glow of retail live people who can't be seen, mostly because no one is looking for them.
We are a bit insulated in our corner of the state and corner of the world. Ours is not a foot-powered culture, so folks like the lady with the cat are separated from us by car windows and traffic. Perhaps the impact on visitors from our part of the Land of Opportunity is greater than if you're a city dweller. Human nature is such that you can only look on some things so long before you don't even see them.
San Francisco is a wonder. Unlike most cities that seem to rise immediately from the center, it undulates over the hills that roll down to the bay. We marveled at the man-made majesty of the Golden Gate Bridge, and the nature-made majesty of the Redwoods in Muir Wood.
A hour-and-a-half drive down California 1 turned into three and half hours, punctuated by frequent breaks to gaze at the surf pounding the rocky shoreline. We took the 17-mile drive past Pebble Beach and were awed by the ocean on one side and multi-million dollar homes on the other.
Everywhere we looked we saw another marvel, another iconic structure, another one-in-a-lifetime experience. And then there were things we didn't want to see.
Our Union Square-area hotel lobby was an art deco explosion, the bellman a friendly, uniformed elf. And the constant smile on his face only faded once, when we were leaving to get dinner and he leaned over to me to make sure I understood, "When you leave the hotel, turn left, don't turn right."
Later, we drove through "the right" on a bright, sunny Saturday. And even on that beautiful Pacific day we knew instantly what he meant.
So what happened? Are homelessness and poverty the givens of big-city life? Is the cure a "living wage" or housing assistance or manna from heaven? If I were guessing, mental health issues are certainly a factor. At least that was an easy guess as I watch a man walking by, carrying a trash bag on his back and wearing white, calf-length socks on his feet but no shoes.
Another man in a grimy jacket walked quickly down the street, talking loudly, his earbuds creating the impression he was on the phone. Except the plug end of the buds flapped out from under his belt. Maybe he thought he was talking to someone. Maybe wearing the earbuds made him feel less alone.
I love cities, the noise and activity, the sights and sounds, the food and the pace. I've been lucky that I've been to some beautiful places, seen some wonderful things. Of all the places I've been, I'd go back to San Francisco in a second.
If and when I go, I know I'll marvel again at the bridges and towers, the hills and cable cars and that wonderful, blue, blue bay.
And I know, maybe because I haven't gotten used to it, I'll see the homelessness. I'll see the lost, wandering by, talking into imaginary cellphones and to people who may or may not be there.
I'll see the beauty and the grandeur and the history. And I'll see the lady with the cat on her head.
Commentary on 03/31/2017