Widdler on the Roof

You want to know who's been bumping up the prices of Tales of the City videos and books on eBay? C'est moi, I blush to disclose.

I'm rapidly running into the end of the first book and I can see the brick wall coming up, and aaaaaargggh! I can't stop!

This is so good. Why have I loved San Francisco for so long and never read these books? I've gathered up every other book series in the Western world - there they are, mostly teetering on my bedside table - but not this one. I've had years to prepare and I'm only hours, possibly minutes away from devastation.

OK. I've got an omnibus on order from Amazon. The first three books. But Amazon tells me, with all earnest sincerity, that it won't be here until after Christmas. Auuuggggh!!! I'll be quite insane by then. Not just climbing the walls, but jumping up and down on the tiles, seriously pissed off.

I've loved San Francisco since the moment I saw the real city. There's an approach over the Southern Bay, and from the left side of the Texas plane there's nothing much. Then there's a taxi and shuttle, and likewise, it's just a city, with freeways and industrial buildings, increasing skyscrapers and grand public buildings. Like any other city.

And then, you're into the real city. Bay windows. Hills like you wouldn't believe. The Bay becoming more than just glimpses. Alcatraz is RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU! And off in the distance, OMFG, it's those iconic towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, blazing red in the sunshine.

Fort Mason is my home here. I never want any other place. Midway between Fisherman's Wharf and the Palace of Fine Arts, there's a park with frisbees and dog obediences, and then the best supermarket in the universe. Fort Mason itself is impossibly pretty, with old married quarters, the Stars and Stripes fluttering above vintage army office buildings, palm trees, green grass, the blue and windy bay stretching from Golden Gate to Treasure Island. This has got to be the best youth hostel in the world.

And Book Bay, a wonderful library surplus bookstore in one of the old wharves. I could, honestly, buy enough excellent books there to make my homeward flight struggle for altitude. Without busting my credit card. It's good. Probably brimming with various editions of the various books in the Tales of the City series. And DVDs out the wazoo. In the bargain bin.

But I'm home in Canberra, and much as I tell people that it's my favorite city in all the world, and I grow homesick after more than a week away, I wanna be back in San Francisco RIGHT NOW!

OK. The books. They are delicious. They are superb serial novel writing. They are wicked, fun, sparkling. So many great lines. Here's my favourite out of many that have had me licking my lips:
"In this town, Michael thought, The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name almost never shuts up."

It's perfectly placed, too. Michael is showing his unsuspecting, delightfully straight parents around on Halloween, and there are squads of roller-skating nuns whizzing by. They not only know his name, they make observations on his recent prize-winning performance in an underwear dance contest. Michael's father comments on this later and his mother, who may possibly know a whole lot more about the world than her husband, chides, "Don't raise your voice, Herb. There may be Catholics in the room."

Or possibly not. The occupants of 28 Barbary Lane are a delightful mix of frustrations, knowledge, curiosity, colour and wisdom. Led by the landlady who greets new tenants with a fat joint taped to their apartment doors.

Forget the spectacular views. Forget the architecture. It's the people I love. And Armistead Maupin has captured them brilliantly.