Coming home from other cities and other parts,  one crosses the bay to reach San Francisco and sees first the gray silhouette of her hills,  shingled with roofs and roofs and roofs;  the royal fringe of masts and spars along her waterfronts;  the gray fog circling and fuming softly over it all,  and the gulls flying and crying.  The little boats plying to and fro,  sound their hoarse,  sweet notes of warning,  and perhaps the noon whistles and the Angelus bells take up the sound in a long chord that to some hearts say,  “Welcome home!”
    Each to his own city.  But do you love them as we do,  I wonder,  you whose cities are not steep and narrowed streeted,  scented with the spices of the Orient and the good tarry smell of ships and fishing,  lulled by the deep rushing of ocean surges on a long beach,  the lapping of the bay waters against piers?       

MY SAN FRANCISCO   By Kathleen Norris 1932

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