It was the eve of St. Patrick’s Day 2002 and San Francisco was preparing for its traditional parade, already one of the largest in the United States, made more poignant that year by the invitation to a group of firefighters from New York City, along with other first responders, who had worked heroically, and at great personal risk, and indeed, loss to themselves, in the aftermath of the fall of the Twin Towers six months before.
Shortly after midnight, as I was channel hopping in our bedroom of the Holiday Inn, Fisherman’s Wharf, our preferred resting place in those years before we switched to apartment living, when I stumbled across a live broadcast from the building opposite, next to the Cannery Building, once the largest fruit and vegetable cannery in the world, which was ablaze. Given its proximity, we were surprised that there had been no alarm in the hotel itself. We dressed and went down to the lobby to see what was happening.
The stench of smoke, combined with the honking of fire engines (that sound still makes me shudder to this day) on the scene revealed a major conflagration. A single firefighter appeared to be suspended high in the sky on the top of a long ladder set at around forty-five degrees. He was hosing the roof of the building which was aflame. There were several dozen people observing and, inevitably, taking photos and videos of the “show”.
However, it seemed that that the fire was controlled and that our hotel, though only a few steps across the road, was not in danger, hence the decision not to evacuate. Not being of a rubber necking inclination, we decided to return to our room and monitor events on the live local TV stream. But on passing through the entrance, we witnessed groups of people, luggage clearly packed in a blind panic, fleeing the building and heading in the direction of North Beach. Nerves were still raw from 9/11, but such behaviour was nonetheless extraordinary.
Following on from our ordeal travelling a week or so earlier from San Francisco to South Lake Tahoe, , we began to think our time might be up before we finished the holiday. Although we were wary that there might be a third trauma lurking over the following week, it didn’t happen.
Unless you count the mediocre bagna calda on our last night at the Stinking Rose.
Tony Quarrington 