As a San Francisco reporter covering crime, community, and local politics, it’s easy to slip into bleak pessimism. I see what the city once was but is no longer, and I’m often appalled by those tasked with running it. (Or, rather, ruining it.)
But how do tourists perceive San Francisco? That’s a different story, and one I wanted to explore.
Since nearly every visitor rides the iconic cable cars, spending morning to night aboard our most popular landmark seemed the perfect way to see the city through their eyes.
On Monday, Sept. 8, Clipper Card in hand, I rode all the cable car lines back and forth. I took so many trips that my card sputtered, and the last few rides couldn’t be logged.
If I were a tourist, what would be my impression of San Francisco? Read on.
Sweet and sour sights at the cable car turnaround
At 8:30 a.m., the day was already bright and warm. After a dreary summer of thick fog and biting wind, I was grateful. I boarded the Hyde Street car at Jackson Street, and we rumbled down to the turnaround at the intersection of Powell and Market streets.
I braced for a chaotic, dirty scene but was relieved to find the opposite — a promising start.
Because thousands of people arrive from the airport by BART train, I checked out Powell Street Station. I had to blink. The station was impeccable.
Then things took a downturn.
Hallidie Plaza was adorned prettily with lanterns and was generally in order. However, a man was slumped over a chair, unconscious and surrounded by drug use supplies. I roused him, asking if he was O.K. and needed help, but he shook his head no.
At the cable car turnaround, a distraught woman was filing a police report with two officers outside the beautiful but boarded-up Flood Building, which up until recently, housed The Gap. A disheveled, incoherent man approached everyone in the cable car line, asking for money.
Then there was the big banana bench. It didn’t fit with the scenery and was already scrawled with graffiti. Thankfully, it’s temporary, to be removed by month’s end.
I walked up Powell Street, passing empty storefronts and a smattering of intoxicated panhandlers.
Still, I found a charming new cafe and bar called Nave, connected to the Hotel Stratford. The manager was optimistic, saying the area is improving and recommended that I go to Bartlett Hall, an award-winning brewery just up the street, for beer later.
Overall, Union Square and its surroundings were in decent physical shape. If visitors expected perfection, they would be disappointed.
Still, as the Irishman who had been in San Francisco for a few days said, while standing in line for the next cable car, “It’s common in many big cities these days, isn’t it? We get used to it.”
Fisherman’s Wharf is a place to write home about
On Geary I boarded the Powell and Hyde Street car to Fisherman’s Wharf.
Descending the crest of Hyde Street is a magnificent experience with sweeping views of the bay and Lombard Street. The end of this line was a far cry from Market and Powell. Pristine, with no drug users in sight. Visitors would surely be impressed.
I bought a coffee from the stunning Cafe de Casa and talked with a couple of Dolphin Club members. One grumbled about the state of San Francisco, the other more sanguine.
Around noon, I returned to the cable car stop to find several cars backed up. Riders waited in the growing line with little communication. While most of the transportation workers were convivial, it was disheartening to see a few ignore visitors.
I leaned over the barrier to ask when the next car would depart. He said 10 minutes but offered to let some of us board early to wait. An older man who was having trouble standing thanked me as we climbed aboard.
An Australian couple shared that they were thrilled with the city, finding it cleaner and nicer than they remembered from 30 years ago. A couple from East Africa chimed in, equally enamored. They wanted to try authentic San Francisco cuisine, so I recommended cioppino and jotted down Tadich Grill, tearing the page from my notepad to give them.
Union Square on the edge
Back to Union Square on the cable car in the early afternoon. The gripman let a thrilled young boy ring the bell, a moment he and his parents will surely share with friends. When I told the conductor about this project, he became excited and had “cable car gripman Lance” take a photo with me.
Less delightful: stepping off the car to find a man doubled over, clearly on fentanyl. I tried to talk to him, but it was futile. A nearby police officer ran over immediately, an impressive response. I left them to it.
At 3 p.m., Mayor Daniel Lurie spoke at the Council of Institutional Investors conference at the St. Francis Hotel so as a member of the press I joined. I mingled with guests in the stunning lobby, still under renovation but set to be unveiled in mid-October, according to a staff member managing a hiring fair.
Unsurprisingly Lurie gave a rousing speech about the city’s upward trajectory. He acknowledged our homelessness and drug issues but emphasized his administration’s vigorous action. Longtime residents may chortle with skepticism, but I hope the investors believe. Those empty buildings just outside won’t lease themselves.
By the time I slipped away, Union Square had become a makeshift playground with badminton, ping-pong, and cornhole. These nonrevenue activities gave a veneer of vitality, but the closed cafes on both ends — b. patisserie (open only Wednesday to Friday, 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.) and a long-defunct restaurant — undermined the impression of urban health.
Walking back to Market Street, I passed a “Vacant to Vibrant” small business. Nooworks was dark despite a “back at 4 o’clock” sign. Peering inside, it didn’t look inviting. Their contract ends this year.
Despite the fine weather, Union Square was quiet by late afternoon, though I did meet a few lively Australian women. In San Francisco for just 10 hours, they bubbled with enthusiasm. Their travel agent had booked them into a Tenderloin hotel, so they were relieved to be elsewhere.
We watched SFPD guarding a film truck (the Netflix production Voicemails for Isabelle being shot throughout the city). Officers next to the fleet of police motorcycles invited the Aussies to sit on their bikes for photos. Everyone was amused. More great stories for back home.
I doubt the Australian women noticed the massive, boarded-up Saks Fifth Avenue on the corner of Post Street, but fixating on it nearly crashed my mood. Seeing the city through a new visitor’s eyes was surprisingly tough. I had to deliberately refocus my scope.
Fisherman’s Wharf, part 2
The Powell and Mason Street car ride was less scenic than Hyde Street’s dramatic views, but riders didn’t seem to mind. All seemed jolly, and by the end, the car was packed.
At Fisherman’s Wharf, we disembarked to tidy streets and sidewalks. That balmy evening, Jefferson Street was sparkling clean and active. While the scores of Dungeness crab pots have trickled to a few, those without recollection won’t know. They may balk at the menu prices but ultimately it’s about the experience, right? Astute visitors might wonder what the shuttered Castagnola’s, started in 1916 was like, but surviving restaurants like Cioppino’s and Capurro’s were festive and lively.
The cable car line back up was enormous, and some in the crowd were audibly frustrated. Basic communication about departure times would have made a big difference.
Yet as I boarded around 6 p.m., an English couple gushed about how gorgeous and safe San Francisco felt. They’d just been in Las Vegas, and were disturbed by the street squalor. Their tour guide explained they were solving the problem by putting homeless drug users on buses to San Francisco with $200 gift cards. Unconfirmed but plausible.
The grand finale
At the end of the night, I rode the California cable car to the Financial District. Cute out-of-towners flirted with the conductor, and those within earshot laughed at the bawdy jokes.
We disembarked outside the Hyatt Regency, to a near empty Market Street. With private vehicles still banned from this major transit artery and not enough office employees, visitors might mistake it for a holiday instead of a workday.
It was time to head home. As I waited for the next cable car to go up California Street, I peered through the new “I love SF” sign. A bit cheesy, but the heart perfectly framed the waiting cable car. A cool touch. And better than a banana.
If this were my first time in San Francisco and I stuck to this narrow path, I’d be utterly charmed — unaware of her glories but captivated by what is, now, here. At least on that day, in September 2025.