I Did Time on Pier 39

I am lucky enough to work right across the street from the one place in San Francisco I would never visit by choice. How else would I discover its intricacies, its habits, its charm? Because if I didn't work right across the street from Pier 39, I might never know it was there. And I might die in peace, never knowing such a place existed. Instead, I live in disgust that the tourism industry has created this glut of tack, and that my building has only one entrance, and that this entrance requires that I view the pier no less than ten times a day. (I take a lot of smoke breaks.)

At first, in my newness to the city, I was excited to eat lunch near the water and watch the parade. I sat on one of the railroad ties that lead to the burned-out arch, listening to the ethereal sounds of the Native American band and watching the man in gold perform for nuclear families and gaggles of teen-agers. Busses would pull up and dump a bedraggled group of tourists onto the cement, and each group would proceed to take pictures of one another in every possible combination in front of the Kodak "Picture Spot" sign hooked to the fence. Well, that's nice, I thought. If I went to Paris, I would sure as hell get a picture of myself in front of the Eiffel Tower. Probably on the tower, actually probably leaning over the tower and pretending to fall off, but I'd still get a picture. And look at all these people together. Awwww.

I think it was the day the man in gold took his mask off that I began to feel I had been had. He jumped off his milk crate after performing a little mime, blatantly directing a woman's dollar bill into the can in his hand, and pulled the nylon mask over his head. He sort of strutted around his performance space, trying to see if anyone would bother it if he walked away, and then ducked into a building. And it was a real guy. You know, a real man, not a mystery anymore in gold-painted jeans and tails, and my mind screamed, That's not professional! He came out of character in front of his audience! And as I was thinking this, I realized that the Native American band was playing a song I recognized, and it was "Annie's Song" by John Denver, and all of a sudden I had the feeling that this was not a cultural experience at all, that I was in fact listening to Muzak. Outdoors.

I took a better look at the people then, and realized that the flood of tourists posing in front of the "Picture Spot" was incessant. Most of these people are getting the sign in their pictures, I thought, and the Golden Gate Bridge isn't even in the background. It's just the blue and yellow boat that takes groups to Alcatraz, or somewhere out on the Bay. And they're buying clam chowder for five bucks a bread bowl, because that's what you're supposed to do on Fisherman's Wharf, and arriving on the bus-trolleys thinking they have just taken a ride on a cable car. Taken a ride, maybe, but in more ways than one.

Bypassing the pier itself, which you have to do to avoid the onslaught of bubble-painted signs for anything from Swatch watches to doughnut holes, I came to a marina. And this was quieter, because no tourist wanders this far from the video arcade and UnderWater World. As any smoker knows, cigarette breaks are a time to reflect, a time to think and relax, and a time to get away from other humans. Humans tend to avoid cement walkways too far from video arcades and UnderWater Worlds, so after some consideration, I decided that this was a good spot to hide. Elbows up on the thick wooden rails, I leaned over the water and watched the seagulls giving me the eyeball. I hate to be stared at, but as long as they stay far enough away, I can deal with vermin. I took a drag from my post-meal cigarette to demonstrate that I wasn't eating anything.

That's when the Frito hit the water. I had thought I'd heard voices, but because of the echo chamber of the marina could not tell where they came from. And as another corn chip and then another hit the water from above, I realized that Underwater World has a second-story balcony, and that this was where the voices and the chips were coming from. Suddenly I was surrounded by a squawking cotillion of seagulls and pigeons, shedding feathers and screaming at each another as they fought over the shower of food. I couldn't decide what I hated more at that point: vermin-birds or teen-age humans. But as they congregate in the same place, I have been eating my lunch indoors for the past two weeks. I will continue to avoid this blitzkrieg of consumerism until it drops into the Bay or is spirited away by aliens. Unfortunately, unless either happens, this pimple on the face of San Francisco isn't going anywhere, and visitors as well as residents should avoid it at all costs.

Jenny Pritchett

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