Finding Fritz, Sr., Day 10

We saved San Francisco for the last day of our trip for two reasons: first, because it was the primary destination in Pop Pop’s journey, and second, because we thought it would be a lot easier to navigate the downtown area without our large RV. However, by doing this, we had skipped one of Pop Pop’s earlier stops, the Delta Upsilon (DU) Frat House at UC Berkeley, so we made it our first stop of the day. This is how Pop Pop found it in 1922 (14 years after the great earthquake):

June 13, 1922 (cont.)

…Frisco is quite the town. You can see where the earthquake hit it. One part of the city is new while the other is old. Here we were at last. Broke and no grub as yet.

We looked all over the town for people who we had addresses of but found none so I looked up the D.U. House which was at the University of Cal. in Berkley on the other side of the bay. We didn’t know what to do. Ray sold his eversharp pencil to a fellow in a drug store for 50 cents. This got us something to eat and over to Berkley. After a long search we located the D.U. House where we were received with open arms by the boys. They fed us and we told them of our trip. Took a bath and washed our shirts and underware and went to bed. This was the first real bed we had slept in since we left Wes. Wallace at Pinckneyville Ill. nearly a month ago. It didn’t seem possible but never the less it was. Didn’t take us long to doze off on a pillow that night.

June 14th , 1922
We got up after 14 hours sleep. Felt fine. Got the best meal we had all the way out {from Philadelphia}. After grubbing two bucks from the boys we bid them goodby and started back to Frisco. This time we could see the city very good from the ferry. Sure is pretty. Built on a side of a hill.

89 years later, in 2011, we had no trouble locating the DU house, but unlike Pop Pop, we had no boys greeting us with open arms! No matter how hard we knocked on the door, no one answered. We should have known better, it being Sunday morning, but we tried knocking nonetheless. Finally after giving up, we took a few photos and began to retreat towards the car. At this point, someone exited the front door, apparently to get cell phone reception or privacy. Once he finished his call, we approached him and told him of our mission, and he kindly invited us in to visit the frat house.

After looking around the common rooms, he invited us into the wood-paneled library, which was lined on all walls with old DU yearbooks, meeting minutes, photographs and other fraternity paraphernalia. It didn’t take us long to locate some books from Pop Pop’s era, including a guest book which ended only a few months before his arrival. Hoping to be able to discover Pop Pop’s signature, we searched for a later guest book, but found nothing. Our host explained that there had been a fire some time ago, which probably destroyed the book we were looking for.

Thanking him for his hospitality, we headed down the hill, and towards the highway to the north side of the bay. Rather than cross over by ferry, as Pop Pop did, we decided to enter San Francisco by the Golden Gate Bridge. The high cloud cover added to the drama of the scenery. Once we crossed, we stopped to admire and explore the Golden Gate for a good 45 minutes before heading up the hills to see some of the sights of San Francisco before our reserved ferry to Alcatraz Island. We drove through Haight- Ashbury but due to heavy traffic, had to postpone the famous zig-zag drive down Lombard St., fearing we might miss our 3:15 launch.

In answer to our desperate prayer, we found a parking space near the Alcatraz Ferry at Pier 33, and were nearly the last to board the boat. The mile and a half crossing to Alcatraz Island was swift, smooth, relaxing and short. I couldn’t help thinking of my own trip from Philadelphia to San Francisco in 1972, with my friend, Fritz Kohler. Without realizing it, he and I were also retracing much of my grandfather’s trip, exactly 50 years after him! In 1972, the maximum security penitentiary had already been closed for 9 years, and the island had just been made a national recreation area. Fritz K. had heard it would be possible to visit, which he hoped to do someday. I don’t know if he ever made it, but here I was, 39 years later, doing just that.

Nicknamed “The Rock,” Alcatraz rises steeply from the bay. The austere and fading concrete buildings of the former penitentiary seem to be rooted in the rock of the island. As we approached the dock, a strange mix of images greeted us: a fortress-like building with three rows of dark windows stared blankly at us. Below the soulless windows, fading graffiti announced “Indians Welcome,” a remnant of the 19-month protest and occupation of 1969-1971. Below this, a hundred or so tourists were milling around in front of a bookshop and various National Park signs, waiting to enter the Disneyland-style corral to board the return ferry.

On the other hand, once we entered the prison, a more focused and unyielding vision surrounded and took hold of us. Three tiers of sterile steel and concrete prison cells rose above us like a reverse-pyramid, each level overhanging the one below. Individual cells were barely large enough for the bed, sink, toilet and shelves, let alone a grown man. We were led past the various cell blocks by pre-recorded audio players hung around our necks, which described prison conditions, and told memorable stories of pathological personalities, escape attempts, and prison history. The voices and words of previous inmates intensified the already haunted atmosphere. Nevertheless, despite the desperation of prison life, and despite the absence of beauty or warmth, I found Alcatraz strangely alluring, simply because it was so unique and otherworldly.

Finally, and somewhat reluctantly, we headed back to the dock for our escape to the mainland. Once there, we wandered around the piers of the Fisherman’s Wharf area, made our way to the Maritime Park and watched the subdued sunset beyond the Golden Gate Bridge. Just above the park was the Buena Vista Cafe, famous for having introduced Irish Coffee to the US in the 1950s. We headed there for our last supper on the road together.  Due to its limited seating, people were encouraged to sit with strangers, which we did. At our table we met an attractive, though somewhat inebriated, teacher from Elko, NV. She seemed interested in our story, having just taken the train herself from Nevada to San Francisco.

Eventually she headed over to the club across the street, and our conversation became more muted, realizing that our adventure was winding down. Rather than call a taxi, we decided to take a trolley back to our parking spot, which ended up being more of a hassle than it was worth. We then drove our car up the hill for an anti-climactic nighttime drive down Lombard Street, before making our way down to our hotel near the airport.