Published June 3, 2019

In the first couple of months of 1990, I went with some college newspaper staffers to San Francisco for a conference for ink-stained wretches like us. The trip was educational and a lot of fun. I got to have dinner with my uncle and his partner, who lived in a nearby suburb. I got to spend hours at City Lights bookstore (and came home with a T-shirt from there).

This was just a few months after the Loma Prieta earthquake of Oct. 17, 1989, but the aftermath did not affect our comings and goings like one might imagine.

Discovering the San Francisco Bay Guardian, which contributed an editor to a discussion about editorial writing (and whose ideas I still think about), was an eye-opening experience. But driving on the hilly streets of San Francisco was probably the most amazing part of the trip for someone from flat south Louisiana.

I was married at the time, and my wife, a drama therapist, was interested in the program at the California Institute of Integral Studies, which was in the city. I took time to drive there to talk with staff members and pick up some materials from her. That meant driving through the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood — and attempting to parallel park. On a steep hell. Going backward down the slope. That was fun. (I remember a sign that said something to the effect of “Prevent Runaways: Curb Your Wheels.”)

At some point during that trip to or from the hotel, Elton John’s “Sacrifice” came on the radio, just as I was reaching a series of ups and downs on a long stretch of road without a traffic light or stop sign. There was something about the way the song’s melody and percussion roll that perfectly matched the experience of driving on a hilly road.

The lyrics don’t have any relevance to the story, but to this day, I can’t hear the song without thinking about that wonderfully exciting first day of driving on hilly ground.

San Francisco photo by Tunatura/via Shutterstock