Page 142 - Michael Frost-Voyages to Maturity-23531.indd

potent of its symbols) and one of the best-protected from the violence of the
oceans. In fact, its entrance, between two headlands, with the Golden Gate Bridge
linking them, is very similar to the gateway to Sydney, though the bay, almost
dominated by Alcatraz, is too large and commercial to have any residual beauty.
Nonetheless, I was pleased to see that the berth allotted to us was in the centre of
activity, the cable-cars being just a short walk away from the Fisherman’s Wharf
conglomeration. The city itself was quite spectacular, more so than Sydney but for
the prominence there of the Harbour Bridge. We arrived on a very cold day, but
in part because of the frequency of dense fog off the coast, this unwanted cold was
apparently quite common. Suffice it to say that for the thirty-six hours that we
occupied our berth, I was able to see a good deal of the city by carefully choosing
the cable-car rides, and incidentally have a demonstration of the evanescence
of ‘fame’; ‘Scranton for President’ signs were everywhere, but who now would
recall the name? I had already learned that judicious use of public transport was
often the best way to see the layout, delights and dregs of any city. But, strangely
or otherwise, I noted that I was primarily aware of, and disappointed by, the fact
that nobody was sending letters to me; I had expected letters from home, Carole,
Heidi, Sandra and Margaret. I was apparently forgotten!

Los Angeles (more particularly, San Pedro) is as unimpressive a port as
is Rotterdam. Both are completely without scenic interest, it is difficult to see
where the ship’s destination is to be when entering port, its layout apparently
having no pattern, and berths were miles from the centre of the City (if indeed
there is any ‘centre’; walking is unknown, the bus system can hardly be termed a
system, and, it being July, it was unconscionably hot). However, I was not one to
complain, Black Mac deciding that it was time for another tour report, this one
on Disneyland in Anaheim.
The bus departed early, as it was some distance to travel. But it was an
instructive journey; this plainly was a large city, but I was struck by the fact
that the neighbourhoods through which we travelled showed distinct signs of
poverty. Most of the houses were small and almost shanty-built, many of wooden
construction and generally in poor shape. In comparing them with housing
around, say, British ports, they looked distinctly ‘temporary’; British row houses
around the London docks, Newcastle or Southampton, for example, were old
and bleak, but they had been solidly built and, indeed, if they had a particular
problem, it was that they were constructed to last for a hundred years or more;
they looked permanent but grim. I had actually been inside some of those
dwellings in East London (owned by various persons living in Woolwich) and
they were as small and glum inside as they appeared from their grubby tiny front
‘gardens’. What seemed to be the equivalent in Los Angeles, admittedly in a far
more benign climate, was of a far more impermanent order; many didn’t even
look professionally built.

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