their heights, looking down on the harbor, alive with ships from
every land--from the islands of the South Seas, the Mexican West
Coast, China, Japan, Siberia, tropic America, British Columbia,
Australasia, and our own dependencies of Alaska, Hawaii, and the
Philippines--dressed with the flags of every country, and above them
all, floating in its majesty, the Stars and Stripes, in honor of the
arrival of the Pacific fleet, which, under command of Admiral Rodman,
had passed through the Golden Gate that day and swung at anchor in
the harbor--fifty splendid battleships of all descriptions, ablaze
with lights. And small craft, from high-powered motor launches to
fishing-boats, “wind-jammers,” or old-time sailing-vessels, ocean
liners, great freighters, transports, and tramps, all formed a part of
the scene along the Embarcadero, where lie at anchor the ships that
bear the merchandise and products of the world to this gateway of the
West--over seven million tons of freight yearly. The true heroes of sea
fiction man these ships--rugged, venturesome men, with whom Stevenson,
Frank Norris, and Jack London have peopled their books and pictured
their scenes of the water-front of the city.
We were landed at the ferry slip, and with a sensation never to be
forgotten we drove off the wharf into San Francisco--“the city loved
around the world,” built upon hills overlooking the expanse of the
Pacific, with a cosmopolitan throng of half a million people. We
could not have reached here at a more fortunate or auspicious time.
San Francisco was _en fete_ in honor of the fleet. Every street and
building was festooned with flags, banners, and garlands of flowers;
the crowds of people were carrying flowers and waving flags. Market
Street, the Broadway of the city, was arched with flowers, and
suspended from the largest arch was a huge floral bell of the native
golden poppies. All public conveyances and even private cars were
decorated. Searchlights illuminated the scene. Bands were playing,
auto-horns were tooting, and the air was alive with excitement--joyous,
overbubbling pleasure, that had to find a vent or blow up the place.
All of the hotels were packed. The St. Francis looked like the Waldorf
on New Year’s Eve. It was some hours before we found refuge in the
Bellevue, a fine residential hotel on Geary Street.
The next day the Transcontinental Government Motor Convoy arrived,
which added to the celebration that lasted a week. It had come over the
Lincoln Highway, with every conceivable experience; the gallant young
officer in command, Lieutenant-Colonel Charles McClure, told us at
dinner the next evening that “Our worst experiences were in the desert.
The sand was so deep and the trucks were so heavy that at times we only
made a mile an hour. When one got stuck, the men cut the sagebrush and
filled the ruts, and then we were able to crawl.” The city gave them an
ovation, and “dined” them as well--and doubtless would have liked to
have “wined” them also.
The next day we were in the thick of the whirl. I did not consider
our trip really ended until we stood on the sands of the Pacific. We
motored through the city, out to the former Exposition grounds, where
but a few buildings were left standing, and to the Presidio, one of
the oldest military stations in our country, embracing an area of
1542 acres, overlooking the harbor. The formidable coast defenses
make San Francisco the best-fortified city in America. Farther to the
east is Fort Mason, the residence of the commanding officer of the
Western Division; also, the transport docks, the only ones owned by our
Government.
Driving through Lincoln Park, we entered Golden Gate Park, covering
1013 acres, with hundreds of varieties of plant life from all parts of
the world, artificial lakes, boulevards, and the gorgeous flowers for
which California is famed. We could hardly realize that at one time
this was but a desolate expanse of sand-hills. Within the park is the
stadium, the largest athletic field of its kind in America, thirty
acres in all, seating sixty thousand spectators. The park extends to
the Ocean Beach Boulevard, on the edge of the sands, where the breakers
come bounding in against the Seal Rocks and the high promontory on
which the Cliff House stands. The water is cold, and a dangerous
undertow makes bathing unsafe, but the shore is lined with cars;
hundreds of people and children are on the sand, and the tame sea-gulls
are walking on the street pavement very much like chickens.
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.”
We paid (for two) from three to six dollars a night for room and
bath, but in all cases there were cheaper ones to be had. The matter
of restaurant bills is also a personal item. In giving the cost of
hotels, I have included breakfast and dinner. The lunches are listed
as “extras.” The garage expenses included storage and washing the car.
A night’s storage varied from $1.50 in the East to fifty cents in
the West. The cost of washing the car was from $1.00 to $2.50, also
depending on the locality. Every man knows how often he wants his car
cleaned. One New York man that we met in Minnesota told us that his
car had not been washed since he left. It looked it! This, by the
way, was the only New York license that we saw west of Chicago. Rather
remarkable!
Our total mileage was 4154 miles--thirty-three running days. We used
338 gallons of gas (21 to 40 cents), $99.80; sixty-one quarts of medium
oil (15 to 35 cents), $12.80; garage, storage and cleaning, $28.50;
hotels and boat fares for seven weeks for two, $256; extras (laundry,
lunches, postcards, postage, fruit, etc.), $51.38; tips, $50; expenses
in Yellowstone Park (including entry fee for car, $7.50), $100; work
on car in service stations (looking over, oiling, etc.), $64.24; D. &
C. boat from Cleveland to Detroit, for car, $14.50. Total, $677.22, or
about $13.50 a day for fifty days (for two people).
Additional expenses were adjustment on new tire (never used), $35; cost
of shipping car across desert, $196.69; railroad tickets (including
drawing-room, $17.75), $72.50. Total, $304.19.
We might eliminate the new tire adjustment of $35, and if we had driven
across Nevada it would easily have been two hundred dollars less, but
we should doubtless have had repair bills to balance that sum and
more. Except for gas, oil, and garage expenses, the rest can be easily
adjusted, according to the individual, and lessened considerably. And
remember that includes a war-tax on many things.
This trip can be taken in perfect comfort by two people for thirteen
dollars a day, including everything, which means that you are
_traveling_ as well as _living_. Not bad, considering the “H. C. of L.”
today!
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unbalanced.