San Francisco Stories: Part I

One of the many highlights of my recent trip to San Francisco was my frequent brushes with fame. The first one happened before I’d even left the state of Illinois.

My co-worker and traveling companion, Ron, and I were at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport waiting for our connecting flight to San Francisco. Our flight was delayed to allow passengers on an incoming flight from San Diego to disembark. Among the rabble waiting for loved ones to arrive was an older woman, nicely if not spectacularly dressed. She was holding up a spiral-bound notebook with “B.WHITE” printed on it in marker.

Ron and I looked at each other with a smile. Seconds later, Ron verbalized what I had been thinking.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if that were Betty White?”

Sure enough, when the passengers from San Diego emerged moments later, among them was the Golden Girl herself, looking a bit older than I had remembered, but with the same trademark sparkle in her eye. She winked at the few of us who showed signs of recognizing her, joined her friend in one of those airport people-movers for the mobility impaired and whisked away.

Fast forward to that evening. I had checked into my hotel. Remembering San Francisco’s reputation as a non-smoking city, I had asked the concierge if there was anywhere on the property I could smoke. He said no, but as I started to roll away, he said, “Wait a minute. There’s the Roof Garden.”

The Roof Garden, as it turns out, is this gorgeous little enclave on top of the second story. Here’s a crappy picture I took of it the night I found it.



There are beautiful shrubs, palm trees and a gorgeous fountain. There’s a beautiful view of the skyline, including the Transamerica obelisk-shaped headquarters. And there are plentiful.

Now because smoking is a egregious offense in California, the doors leading outside to the garden (one from the lobby, one from a banquet hall), are emblazoned with a warning that beyond lies an area that contains dangerous chemicals. Then … all is peace and tranquility.

It’s sort of like the Betty Ford Clinic, except they let you keep the drugs. And it was here, on the next morning, that I had my second brush with fame.

I was showing Ron The Roof Garden, when we saw a throng spilling out of the banquet room into the garden. There were several cameras. Children in scouting uniforms and Eurpean-looking costumes were nestled toward the center of the mob. Meanwhile, at the crowd’s perimeter, several buff-looking men spoke into their cufflinks at regular intervals.

Secret Service, I instantly thought.

Ron and I looked at each other quizzically. Finally, Ron got up from the stone bench on which he had been sitting and strode over to one of the photogs. They exchanged words, and Ron came back over to where we had been sitting.

“It’s the Polish president,” he said.

At this point, the throng moved in our direction. And at the center of the crowd, surrounded by European journalist speaking in a cacophony of Salvic tongues, was The Man, whom I have since learned is named Aleksander Kwaśniewski. It turns out he’s been The Man since defeating populist hero Lech Walesa ten years ago. And his second and final five-year term ends this year.

“He looks like John Roberts,” Ron remarked.

After the crowd had dispersed, I asked Ron the $64,000 question.

“On the celebrity scale, who wins out: Betty White or the President of Poland?”

“It’s got to be Betty White,” he said. And for emphasis, he proclaimed. “Without. A. Doubt.”

I had to agree with him.