Cookie Boyle's Blog
April 11, 2021
Ode to a cable car
After living in New York, it felt like the obvious choice. You could live here without a car. It’s relatively walkable -— once you learn to manage the elevation changes. And there’s a swagger to it. After all, it’s San Francisco.
Those first few weeks in a new city are some of the hardest and some of the most telling as you transition from visitor to resident. It’s a shift in expectations and realizations. It’s also shift in how you see yourself.
As a newcomer to San Francisco, there is so much to take in. The Victorian homes. The Golden Gate. The mostly good weather. The colour of the sky – I’d never get tired of that distinct shade of deep, electric blue. And of course, the cable cars. What was once a legitimate means of public transportation are now National Historic Landmarks, operating mostly for tourists.
My first apartment, which achieved the all-too-rare combination of being both centrally located and well priced, was on a cable car line. I loved being on the phone and hearing that ‘ding ding’ of the cable car as it passed. The person on the other end of the line would ask: “Is that a cable car I hear?” And I’d sigh, “well, yeah,” as if it was obvious that cable cars ran by my front door, because that’s just what happens when you live here.
Their unabashed accessibility amazed me. In Las Vegas, a ride in the faux gondola at the Venetian Hotel, where the Ty-D-Bowl blue water looks inches deep, requires you to wear a seatbelt. Yet here in San Francisco you can hop on, hang from and hop off a moving cable car, without having to sign away your rights. It requires self responsibility. What a concept.
So, between their charm, their iconic status and their legitimate form of transportation — did I mention they passed right by my front door — I became, in a word, obsessed. I loved being one of those locals who took the cable car for actual A to B transportation, not just for photos from the top of Lombard Street. I loved watching the operators manage the huge levers that stopped and started the cable cars. I loved knowing that I didn’t need to wait in the queue at the turnaround point. I was now a local, so could wait at any stop, and expect to get on.
Climbing Powell Street, I’d hang from the side, like I’d seen in movies, and delight that every driver seemed to take us on a journey, every time, every trip.
Yet I still couldn’t understand how the cable cars actually worked. How could they stop and start without an engine? What was the large lever inside the car actually doing? And why were we all so comfortable putting ourselves on these rolling contraptions that seemed to operate by some external force?
I could have gone to the Cable Car Museum and found the answer to this question, and more. But I’d lived here for three whole weeks, and that’s simply not what real locals, like me, actually do.
But my obsession grew. Each time I’d take a cable car, I’d studiously watch the drivers push and pull on the lever, making it stop and start, hold and go.
Then one evening, walking across Powell Street, I looked down, between the metal tracks, to what ran below. I was astonished to see movement. Something was running under the street. I kept standing and staring until the person I was with suggested I move, before I became the city’s next traffic accident.
“It’s amazing,” I proclaimed.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s like the cars attach to a rope. But it’s made of metal.”
“You mean a cable?” he asked.
Oh yeah, a cable.
I guess local takes time.
For more stories, please visit my website.
Those first few weeks in a new city are some of the hardest and some of the most telling as you transition from visitor to resident. It’s a shift in expectations and realizations. It’s also shift in how you see yourself.
As a newcomer to San Francisco, there is so much to take in. The Victorian homes. The Golden Gate. The mostly good weather. The colour of the sky – I’d never get tired of that distinct shade of deep, electric blue. And of course, the cable cars. What was once a legitimate means of public transportation are now National Historic Landmarks, operating mostly for tourists.
My first apartment, which achieved the all-too-rare combination of being both centrally located and well priced, was on a cable car line. I loved being on the phone and hearing that ‘ding ding’ of the cable car as it passed. The person on the other end of the line would ask: “Is that a cable car I hear?” And I’d sigh, “well, yeah,” as if it was obvious that cable cars ran by my front door, because that’s just what happens when you live here.
Their unabashed accessibility amazed me. In Las Vegas, a ride in the faux gondola at the Venetian Hotel, where the Ty-D-Bowl blue water looks inches deep, requires you to wear a seatbelt. Yet here in San Francisco you can hop on, hang from and hop off a moving cable car, without having to sign away your rights. It requires self responsibility. What a concept.
So, between their charm, their iconic status and their legitimate form of transportation — did I mention they passed right by my front door — I became, in a word, obsessed. I loved being one of those locals who took the cable car for actual A to B transportation, not just for photos from the top of Lombard Street. I loved watching the operators manage the huge levers that stopped and started the cable cars. I loved knowing that I didn’t need to wait in the queue at the turnaround point. I was now a local, so could wait at any stop, and expect to get on.
Climbing Powell Street, I’d hang from the side, like I’d seen in movies, and delight that every driver seemed to take us on a journey, every time, every trip.
Yet I still couldn’t understand how the cable cars actually worked. How could they stop and start without an engine? What was the large lever inside the car actually doing? And why were we all so comfortable putting ourselves on these rolling contraptions that seemed to operate by some external force?
I could have gone to the Cable Car Museum and found the answer to this question, and more. But I’d lived here for three whole weeks, and that’s simply not what real locals, like me, actually do.
But my obsession grew. Each time I’d take a cable car, I’d studiously watch the drivers push and pull on the lever, making it stop and start, hold and go.
Then one evening, walking across Powell Street, I looked down, between the metal tracks, to what ran below. I was astonished to see movement. Something was running under the street. I kept standing and staring until the person I was with suggested I move, before I became the city’s next traffic accident.
“It’s amazing,” I proclaimed.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s like the cars attach to a rope. But it’s made of metal.”
“You mean a cable?” he asked.
Oh yeah, a cable.
I guess local takes time.
For more stories, please visit my website.
January 13, 2021
Books I Have Read and Why — Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch
A bookshelf doesn’t just hold books, it holds memories.
Back in the 90s, when I was single and actively looking for love, I was introduced to a fellow through a randomly forwarded email. It was that kind of unexpected, rom-com meeting that I could convince myself meant ‘something’. We began a pre-Tinder, pre-Match.com online conversation. We lived in different cities (strike one) but he lived in a city that I visited often (so only a half-strike).
We were both single, so naturally our lengthy online chats turned to relationships. During one of his exchanges, he mentioned Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch. He declared that when he read it, he found it to be so full of male truths that it should be banned to all females, as it would give us “an unfair advantage” in the dating game.
Of course, the first thing I did was rush out and buy it. I devoured the book, expecting to become instantly wiser on a subject I was obsessed with – single men. I imagined I’d be surrounded by a light of wisdom. I would float through the days on a cloud of male insight, smiling at those women less informed than I was (effectively half the population) who didn’t realize, as I did, what men really thought. I would be able to see into the male soul and predict their actions. I would laugh – oh how I would laugh – at those who were astounded by my predictive abilities about what a man was thinking or going to do. And I would never make another bad relationship decision again.
I would write a book about “Things All Women Should Know About Men” (TAWSKAM™). The book would lead to a book tour, followed by a stint on Oprah and eventually my own TV show. That was the power of Fever Pitch.
When I finally met aforementioned fellow in person (IRL as we now say), he was funny and smart. I decided that I understood him, because I had read The Book. Half an hour into our evening, we were joined (unexpectedly, at least to me) by a local female celebrity — single, gorgeous and delightful. The kind of woman you want to find fault with, but can’t. Over the next hour I watched him flirt with her, and her return the flirt. Hold on, aren’t I the one who’s meant to be on a date with this guy?
Nick Hornby didn’t prepare me for this.
There was no second “date”. But to this day, when I see Nick Hornby’s first book, I smile, as not only was it an enjoyable read, I remember who I was when I was reading it. That person will forever be embedded between the pages of Fever Pitch. And is now happily married to someone else.
For more, please visit my website.
Back in the 90s, when I was single and actively looking for love, I was introduced to a fellow through a randomly forwarded email. It was that kind of unexpected, rom-com meeting that I could convince myself meant ‘something’. We began a pre-Tinder, pre-Match.com online conversation. We lived in different cities (strike one) but he lived in a city that I visited often (so only a half-strike).
We were both single, so naturally our lengthy online chats turned to relationships. During one of his exchanges, he mentioned Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch. He declared that when he read it, he found it to be so full of male truths that it should be banned to all females, as it would give us “an unfair advantage” in the dating game.
Of course, the first thing I did was rush out and buy it. I devoured the book, expecting to become instantly wiser on a subject I was obsessed with – single men. I imagined I’d be surrounded by a light of wisdom. I would float through the days on a cloud of male insight, smiling at those women less informed than I was (effectively half the population) who didn’t realize, as I did, what men really thought. I would be able to see into the male soul and predict their actions. I would laugh – oh how I would laugh – at those who were astounded by my predictive abilities about what a man was thinking or going to do. And I would never make another bad relationship decision again.
I would write a book about “Things All Women Should Know About Men” (TAWSKAM™). The book would lead to a book tour, followed by a stint on Oprah and eventually my own TV show. That was the power of Fever Pitch.
When I finally met aforementioned fellow in person (IRL as we now say), he was funny and smart. I decided that I understood him, because I had read The Book. Half an hour into our evening, we were joined (unexpectedly, at least to me) by a local female celebrity — single, gorgeous and delightful. The kind of woman you want to find fault with, but can’t. Over the next hour I watched him flirt with her, and her return the flirt. Hold on, aren’t I the one who’s meant to be on a date with this guy?
Nick Hornby didn’t prepare me for this.
There was no second “date”. But to this day, when I see Nick Hornby’s first book, I smile, as not only was it an enjoyable read, I remember who I was when I was reading it. That person will forever be embedded between the pages of Fever Pitch. And is now happily married to someone else.
For more, please visit my website.
January 4, 2021
Let the story tell itself
Here I sit, at start of a new year, starting a new novel.
Staring at the blank page, or in this case a blank word document, I’m filled with a sense of opportunity. About 90,000 words ahead lies a story of a character I have been carrying with me, but don’t yet fully know.
I know where she came from, but I don’t quite know where she is going, or how she’s going to get there. I know what is driving her, but I don't yet know her flaws. I have dreams for her journey, but to get there, she needs to reveal more of herself to me.
As my new novel, Kindred River, begins to form itself, I realize that starting a new novel is like embarking on a new relationship. I have the perfect story in my head. I’ve spent countless hours imagining it, but haven’t started to build it. I have hopes of where I want it to go, and the stories we’ll tell together, but I don’t yet know the steps to get us there.
Like a good relationship, a novel is a blend of hope and happenstance, work and words. There will be good days and bad, stories that work and other that need work. And sometimes I just simply need to get out of the way and let the story tell itself.
Ernest Hemmingway said, “the only kind of writing is rewriting.” And it occurs to me that relationships are the same: The only kind of good ones are those we’re always working to make better.
No one said this novel-writing habit was going to be easy.
Happy new year to you all.
For more, please visit my website.
Staring at the blank page, or in this case a blank word document, I’m filled with a sense of opportunity. About 90,000 words ahead lies a story of a character I have been carrying with me, but don’t yet fully know.
I know where she came from, but I don’t quite know where she is going, or how she’s going to get there. I know what is driving her, but I don't yet know her flaws. I have dreams for her journey, but to get there, she needs to reveal more of herself to me.
As my new novel, Kindred River, begins to form itself, I realize that starting a new novel is like embarking on a new relationship. I have the perfect story in my head. I’ve spent countless hours imagining it, but haven’t started to build it. I have hopes of where I want it to go, and the stories we’ll tell together, but I don’t yet know the steps to get us there.
Like a good relationship, a novel is a blend of hope and happenstance, work and words. There will be good days and bad, stories that work and other that need work. And sometimes I just simply need to get out of the way and let the story tell itself.
Ernest Hemmingway said, “the only kind of writing is rewriting.” And it occurs to me that relationships are the same: The only kind of good ones are those we’re always working to make better.
No one said this novel-writing habit was going to be easy.
Happy new year to you all.
For more, please visit my website.
