I decided to take the cable car up the hill. I had a pass for all the city transportation — a handy thing to have simply for the convenience of it –, and I hadn’t taken one in a long time. I walked out of my apartment and headed a few blocks up the street, and there it was — just passing by. So I stood by the little sign written in Chinese letters I couldn’t read, and waited for it to pick me up.
It was rather full that day, so I stood on the outside near the front. The crisp wind of travel blew through my hair, and I could almost smell the ocean — almost. The city stands so precariously on its hills above the sea, but its own scents and sounds drown out those of the deep, vast water.
It was exactly like the first time I had ridden it. The bell on the front, the constant clacking of the car pulling itself up the cable; it was all nostalgic. It made me feel like I was seventeen again, holding my dad’s hand in the strangely chilly April weather. But I was on my own now: I had brought it upon myself, and I had left so fast that I was assured not to have a place to go back to.
I didn’t know where I wanted to go; not consciously, at least. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew where that car was taking me. It was a place that held some great mystery to me: it kept within it memories that weren’t mine, but I felt them within my soul. Memories of an uncle I never knew and a funeral I couldn’t remember came tumbling through my mind. I was dwelling on them, contemplating their importance, when I looked up and realized where I was meant to go.
Before me stood the massive stone arches and stained-glass windows of Grace Cathedral. Her wide steps called me; her giant doors were thrown open for any to enter. There were banners clinging to her sides, calling notice to an anniversary of so many years of existence; they hung limp, waiting for some breeze to pick them up and take them from the majestic, decaying walls on which they hung. Her steeple pointed to the sky, the only part that was lit above the buildings in the fading light.
I both revered and hated this place, and as I stepped onto the sidewalk, my blood grew cold. My mind wanted to flee from here, to turn right and walk down the hill until I was safe among the shouting tourists and the inviting smell of fried fish by the piers. It seemed that at that moment, my feet were moving completely of their own accord; my mind fought them, but they won. Slowly, one by one, I walked up the inviting steps, calling me onward and upward until I reached a door. I placed a hand on the doorframe, a physical barrier to the route my feet were taking me. The stone was cold and gray, seeping into the warmth of my skin. For a moment, I held my breath, and the next moment I was in the dark and cavernous interior of the Cathedral.
