I spent the weekend of Father’s Day with my favorite daughter, and we found ourselves in San Francisco. I recall many happy days as a younger man wandering around this part of California, and nostalgia for those times coupled with the occasion of sightseeing with my daughter made for a sentimental afternoon. We also had a blast.

The new eastern span of the Bay Bridge is quite a marvel, as we saw for ourselves driving across it into the city. One of my favorite memories of crossing the bridge is of the smell of Hill Brothers coffee roasting at the headquarters of the San Francisco company, and although the aroma no longer pervades the neighborhood, arriving in the city was no less a thrill.

We wanted to depart I–80 in the most favorable position for reaching our first objective, but I miscalculated and went an exit too far. This error was immediately compounded by running headlong into all the like‐minded folks brought to the city by a sunny weekend day slowed in their advance by local road construction. One thing I know from experience is that San Francisco drivers may be counted upon to make whatever harebrained maneuvers are necessary to make forward progress no matter the obstacle, so no panic was needed, just a willingness to join in. We adapted our plans to the exigencies and headed for the Marina District.

I was going to use a parking lot at an intersection to bypass one construction site and had to wait for a guy on a bicycle to clear the driveway. He and his ride were pretty colorful in a Which‐Way‐To‐The‐Summer‐Of‐Love style: skinny, head shaved, deeply tanned, tie‐dyed clothing, probably some playing cards on clothespins in the spokes, and what looked like human hair fashioned into a ponytail hanging from the rear of the seat. The whole getup was very mental ward of the Salvation Army. My daughter, who had been quietly sightseeing, said, Be sure not to hit Gandhi.

The view of the Golden Gate from the St. Francis Yacht Club is not to be missed, and after soaking it in and then tearing ourselves away, we crossed the street to stroll around the grounds of the Palace of Fine Arts. There, it was fun to reflect on the original purpose of the structures (which was to exhibit works of art at a 1915 world’s fair celebrating the completion of the Panama Canal) and speculate as to the design intent behind some of the figures that embroider them. It was a satisfying hour for Dad to spend chatting with his cosmopolitan girl about the world around us, its history, and wondering whether Keats and his urn withstand scrutiny.

After lunch at the Cliff House, it was time to head to Aquatic Park, hunker down, and commit to standing in line to ride the cable car. I had not done so in years, despite the legendary appeal, because the queue to ride, especially the Powell–Hyde line, can be a long one, as it was when we took up position at its rear on this day. The wait was entirely worth the time, though, as once we had claimed positions at the front of the running board and were underway, the trip itself was an unvarnished joy. We had a complete hoot as we climbed the 21 percent grade up the hill to peer down Lombard Street as we passed, marveling at the way the track bent around turns and the manipulations done by the gripman to ease the car around them; riding over Nob Hill where Mark Hopkins once made his home; the gestalt recognizing the prosaic utility of what we had approached as a world‐famous amusement ride; all while standing inches away from passing trucks and other traffic, holding on for dear life, wishing we were nowhere else in the world.

As the sun began reaching for the evening horizon, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and drove up into the Marin Headlands to stop and take a valedictory look. When I was my daughter’s age, I had stomped around the hills to the south having the time of my life, and at day’s end, I was reminded that I still am.