“If you’re going to San Francisco…”

The taxi lurched forward, gliding gently over the paved pathway. Outside the transparent glass, a gigantic neon-light crab went by. A tingling crowd had gathered before a row of stalls at Fisherman’s Wharf vending steamy clam chowder and fresh king crabs. The scene was like the silent still of a travel documentary, yet lively and real.

“So you’re a visitor from out of town, right?”

“Yeah, just here for a few days. I’ve heard so much about the city, it’s so exciting to be here,” I replied.

“Yeah, San Fran is unique alright. Inspiring and rich in colours and culture everywhere you go,” he said with a smile.

On a street corner, a group of youths sat gathered in a circle shaped like a the crescent moon. One guy with long sideburns played a guitar, while a girl with long beaded hair and flowery dress danced. Her movements were carefree, light and mesmerising, as if she had not the slightest worry in the world. “Who were those people?

“Them? Hippies, they call them. And it all began in what they called the “Summer of Love” of 1967. Youngsters began to flock to San Francisco that year. To use a phrase of the time, they came to “turn on, tune in and drop out”, and they lounged on colourful psychedelic buses all over town, but mainly in the Haight-Ashbury area. They believed in free love, experimented with drugs to free the mind and experience different levels of consciousness. And they championed respect for the environment, spoke of “flower power” and “green power” even before scientists alarmed the world about the effects of global warming. Have you heard that song “San Francisco”?

“Not sure. How does it go?”

And with that, the he began to sing. His voice was mellow, yet forceful; calm, yet able to carry the words and their meanings across time and into my ears.

“If you're going to San Francisco,
be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.
If you're going to San Francisco,
you're gonna meet some gentle people there.”

“ ‘Gentle people’, huh?” I repeated, hinting that I was unsure what that meant.

“Yeah, I think Scott Mckenzie capture it best with his song. Hippies were not a bunch of idealist layabouts, as they were dismissed as in those days. They genuinely believed in something real. They believed in the possibility that love and human compassion can change the world. They spoke out against the establishment, which they believed was based on exploitation and oppression of the lower classes.”

“Classes? As in those juniors in my school?”

“No, ‘class’ was a social invention of the 20th Century. It was a psychological barrier created in the minds of narrow-minded people who believed themselves to be better than others because they had more wealth or power or influence.”

“But that’s outrageous!” I said, with disbelief in my voice, “Aren’t all men, women and children born equal, with equal rights and all deserving of the same respect?” We passed a group of tourists who stood in the middle of the road, posing and photographing. I gazed up, and saw a steep and crooked road wind its way uphill as vehicles meandered down. Pedestrians battled the sharp gradient, and climbed the steps that were highlighted with floral decorations.

“That’s how it is today, sure. But back in the day, some people did not have a say because of their gender or because of the colour of their skin. People with dark skin colour were traded as commodities and used as ‘slaves’. Certain people, because of their religious beliefs or traditional ways of living, were exterminated en masse. Many young girls and boys were forced into prostitution. And there was hunger, famine, homelessness and poverty.” The green, tiled roof of Dragon’s Gate gave way to the bustling market of vendors and hawkers swarming Chinatown’s narrow streets. The ring-ring of the bell alerted passerbys of ancient cable cars that climbed and slid down San Francisco’s steep slopes with ease.

“No wonder they called those days the Dark Ages. What a terrible place to be,” I said, reminded of pictures in my textbook of a ragged man begging on the street. Even now, I could see it before me. That soiled face, those sunken eyes wallowing in shame, in hopelessness and desperation. Something about that image made me look again. Though it was just a picture, I felt pity, I felt deep sympathy, and at the same time I felt resentment too at how the world then, with all its riches and fortunes, could possibly ever allow a fellow human being to fall to this dilapidated state of existence. Surrounding him, in dozens of hole-filled plastic bags, were all his belongings. Discarded plastic bottles he could exchange for a meagre few cents, left over bits and pieces of unfinished sandwiches and take-aways.

“Well, that’s all in the past now,” the driver said, his voice taking me back to the present, “Nowadays the future is clearer, brighter, free of all those miseries. Luckily, contrary to how Hobbes put it, life in the world of today is no longer “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short””.

I smiled hearing that, grateful that humanity has somehow, despite the struggles, conflicts, differences and wide range of beliefs, managed to find a common purpose. I thought back at how far human beings have come from those dark, dark days. I thought about how in exploring the vast, endless reaches of boundaryless space has allowed us all to realise how miniscule and insignificant we are in this universe. It was this realisation that spurred that communal will to mould weapons into ploughshares, to come together and embrace other cultures for the sake of humanity’s continued existence, and indeed, very survival. The vehicle jumped a little, and I was thrown back into the seat. Beyond the steep decline before us, the city sprawled like an organised maze of towering skyscrapers, brightly coloured Victorian townhouses and sporadic greenery. A wide body of water lay on the horizon, glistening magnificently like a mirror in the sun.

“Have you not heard that classic song, “Imagine”?”

“I may have. How does it go again?”

Once again, he broke out into song. His voice smooth, full of drama, full of romanticism.

“Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace”

I hummed along with him, my heart moved by the melody and simple, simple words. Outside, engraved on a rectangular stone monument, I could just about make out Rachel Carson’s saying that “those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find resources of strength that will endure as long as life lasts”.

A majestic, white building with majestic columns and graceful arches loomed before us, awing in sight and posture. Puzzled, I asked, “What is that building?”

“Oh, that. That’s the War Memorial Opera House. And next to it is its identical twin, the Veterans Building.”

“War memorial? Veterans?”

“You’re probably too young to remember. And you’re lucky not to have experienced or lived through wars. Those buildings were dedicated to the soldiers of the First World War—the first of many great, big wars to come. In fact, in the last century, war and conflict were commonplace. They fought for all sorts of reasons. For territory, for resources and for wealth. People tortured, killed and slaughtered one another like mad, and justified it in the name of racial or religious purity. And sometimes just for pride and for the sake of it. All sorts of atrocities were committed, including pillage, rape, extermination and forceful internment. Human beings were like savage beast then, but at least animals do not kill or injure others with the malicious intent of doing so.”

“But wasn’t war outlawed as an instrument of policy in the Kellogg-Briand Pact?” I asked, somewhat proud that I actually remembered something from History.

“Yes, it was. But the 20th Century—the so-called Century of Wars—was marred by war and conflicts. You know that the United Nations was established here in San Francisco, right? Yeah, right there, in the City Hall building. That beautiful building over there with the impressive gilded dome and spire.”

“I see it.”

“Well, after the Second World War, a group of Allied Powers came together in that very building and vowed “to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war”. They even promised to respect fundamental human rights, and obliged the international community to “practice tolerance and live together in peace with one another as good neighbours, and to unite our strength to maintain international peace and security””.

“Such noble causes! What happened?” I asked, curiously.

“Those idealists didn’t foresee that the idea of the Nation-State, which was so sacredly protected and which formed the foundation of the new world order, was founded on selfish interests and political ambitions of individual States and their politicians. How could one talk about an international community, yet still cling onto the idea of divided borders, of national interests and sovereignty? Whatsmore, the UN was fundamentally flawed in that the Allied Powers crowned themselves with the inviolable position of “guardians of the peace”. Yet in the face of humanitarian catastrophes and ongoing conflicts, the Big Powers did nothing. They self-interests triumphed over common understanding and sense.” The vehicle seemed to grunt in agreement.

“Those are such foreign ideas to me. Don’t we speak in terms of humanity, of Earth Home and of humankind as a whole now?” I said, even more puzzled now. What kind of world government is established and run by the select few and powerful?

A colourful mural of people of all colours and races, laughing, dancing, singing, hugging and handing hands, adorned the walls of a building. “Yeah, but this came only after many more wars, many more natural and human-made disasters that brought us to the brink of annihilation before we realised that there is more that unites us than divides us”.

The vehicle sped past a theatre. On its side, in large illuminated letters was the word “Castro”. Across the street, an enormous flag fluttered in the wind, bearing the colours of the rainbow. “So this is the Castro District, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess you could say the life of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community in San Francisco is itself a reflection of the gay movement. Life Magazine even named the city the “Capital of the Gay World”, and one of the first pride parades was held right here”.

“Pride? How are gays any different from straight people?”

“Well, there may be no difference today, but back then, gays were discriminated against. Some were even beaten up for holding hands, others were hounded by the police. And some were even killed by gay-bashers and religious fanatics who condemned the “homosexual lifestyle”. A layer of fog was by now forming. Thin, mystical like a gray, semi-transparent veil unrolled by an invisible hand in the heavens, the fog crept quietly over parts of the city.

“As if it’s a choice,” I said solemnly.

“Exactly. But people those days were blinded by fear and intolerance. When the AIDS epidemic broke out, some even gave it the derogatory name of “gay cancer”. It took courageous pioneers like, Harvey Milk who endlessly believed in dialogue and practiced non-violence, years of struggle to finally establish equality, marriage and rights that many of us take for granted”.

The vehicle rode on, through the dense and lush foliage of a park. Over the treetops, I could see the top of a Japanese styled pagoda. Next to it, a distinctive building made of twisted metal and mesh spiralled upwards and houses the de Young Museum.

In that muddle of reflections and thoughts that jumped between the past and the present and the world that flashed quickly before my eyes, I noticed the vehicle had come to a halt. The glass doors opened, and he pointed out into the distance. “We’re here. Look at that there. The most photographed bridge in the world. Probably,” he said.

“Thank you very much,” I said as I stepped off, “You’ve been so kind and welcoming. I’m really grateful”.

“Anytime. Enjoy your stay. And peace be with you,” he said, as he pulled away from the pavement.

I stared for a few moments, captivated by the sheer size and beauty of it all. All the pictures, postcards, movies and wordly descriptions could hardly do it justice. Out of the fog, two red towers soared skyward, unfazed and unshaken by the cold and ever-changing weather creeping in from the wild Pacific. A testament to human engineering and ingenuity, the Golden Gate stood like a causeway into the unknown. A bridge too far, yet connecting the wide expanse of the Bay in a long, straight line, almost as if cutting the wild ocean from the tame, tranquil waters embracing the shoreline and beaches adorning San Francisco.

Fog horns of the bridge and massive container ships sounded and echoed rhythmically like the call two long lost friends trying to locate one another through the subsiding veil. Seagulls spread their wings and caught the free current of the winds. Their flight was liberating to watch, their call was almost soulful, and their small bodies in the endless sky all around reminded me of how small yet connected we are in this great, wide cosmos of living and inanimate beings.

I looked across the Bay, at the inviting and unspoiled raw hilltops of the Marin Headlands. Their arched backs and curved bodies meandered along the tranquil shoreline, and the hills lay silently like gentle giants sleeping against the dusking sky. Stranded at sea, the rocky shores of Alcatraz rose like the shell of a half-submerged turtle. Behind me, the fine dome of the Rotunda peered above the treeline, and stood almost lonelily as one of the sole survivors of the devastating 1906 San Francisco Earthquake and Fire. Far away, in the heart of the Financial District, a pyramid-shaped white structure poked into the heavens alongside a host of skyscrapers all vying for a place. On top of a hill, Coit Tower stood like a well-wishing candle, and almost seemed to burn ivory white.

Greedy men have come and left this city in search of striking it rich with tales of gold. World leaders have once arrived here with loud sounding promises and yet departed without having heard or heeded the words of San Francisco’s “gentle people”. Mother Nature has many times unleashed her most deadly power and devastatingly shaken the city to a hollow hell of burning buildings and suffering. Yet, the spirit, liveliness and peaceful mood of this metropolis on the Bay continue to live long and prosper through and through.

It is through stories and lives of the American Indians who lived in peace with nature, the songs of the hippies, the industriousness of the Chinese and Hispanics, the perseverance and endurance of the blacks and gays that San Francisco today still maintains that air of human hope and unity.

Even if it is nicknamed the Foggy City.