Walking along San Francisco’s waterfront, something about this row of fishing boats struck me as familiar.

Of course, I realized, this is the aquatic complement to the iconic Victorian “painted ladies” across from Alamo Square Park. Every spindle of tourist postcards in San Francisco has one of the “painted ladies.” They are as well-known as the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, Coit Tower, and the homeless sleeping in Tenderloin doorways.

There are colorfully painted Victorians all over San Francisco but this row is by far the most iconic.

I suspect it is no coincidence that this particular row of boats is a conscious tribute to the original painted ladies.

I was surprised to learn that San Franciscans didn’t start decorating their Victorians until the early 1960s. Before that, many tended toward the Battleship gray seen on Navy ships in the bay. There are other cool pictures of colorful Victorian houses and more history at the blog site Amusing Planet.

Last week, I posted the picture of the boats on Facebook, but as often happens, I feel it deserves a bigger platform. Thus, the migration to Muses Magic San Miguel.

I’ll be posting other pictures from San Francisco soon.

My eldest son and I were both in the city within a week of each other.

“The city has never looked more beautiful, ” I said during a phone conversation. “I walked everywhere and couldn’t believe how pristine everything was.”

“It is a disgusting hellhole, full of homeless and drug addicts. I’ll never go again, and I’ll definitely never take my family,” he said.

Did we actually visit the same city?

Admittedly, I only skirted the Tenderloin and didn’t venture south of Market. No reason to, this time.

Yes, there were homeless and empty storefronts are still a mute condemnation of the city’s slump. And yet, on Friday and Saturday, I saw waiting lines in front of restaurants, youthful crowds shoulder to shoulder on North Beach sidewalks. I sat in a park for several hours on Sunday afternoon, watching families, clusters of friends, hand-holding sweethearts, and dog walkers.

A city worker pulled his truck over and turned the volume up on the exciting last minutes of the Warriors’ afternoon victory. I stood in line at Greco’s for my coffee and pastry and beat the crowd for an early evening supper at House of Nanking. All over Chinatown, the red paper of a crackling New Year’s celebration collected into a carpet. Van Morrison played six nights in the city. Biscuits & Clues celebrated 31 years as the city’s premier blues club. Trying to see everything in the deYoung Museum proved futile, again.

BART was as grubby but useful as ever. Waymo driverless cars were everywhere. Ubers and buses were prompt and plentiful. The ferry to Larkspur was luxurious on calm waters and an overcast sky. The trolley from Hyde Street back to Powell was a touristy kick, especially when the driver’s shift ended abruptly in front of the Cable Car Museum, and he said I could complete the run if I wanted or wait for a new driver. He didn’t wait for an answer.

Lands End Trail, The Presidio, Crissy Field, Fort Mason, Marina District Aquatic Cove, Fisherman’s Wharf, the Embarcadero, the Ferry Building, the Financial District, Washington Square, St. Peter and Pauls Church, Grace Cathedral, breakfast at Roxy’s, Russian Hill, Nob Hill, Japantown, Inner Richmond — all familiar, all walked endlessly in one week.

In Nob Hill, the cluttered but convenient Pakistani’s store on Powell has been replaced by a miniature Whole Foods-style market that does not sell fruit or veggies. Imagine that. That’s sad. And a little weird.

I’m not qualified to say anything profound about the past or future of San Francisco. I am only a tourist who happens to have lots of friends in the city and a wife who grew up there. I’ve visited more times than I can recall, run the half-marathon across the Golden Gate Bridge, dressed up several times for the Bay-to-Breakers, watched my middle son win Customer of the Month at the Northstar, attended ballets and the symphony, indulged in Litquake many times, haunted farmers markets, and drank Irish Coffees on Christmas morning at the Buena, ate Christmas dinners at both the Top of the Mark and House of Nanking. But still, I’m only a tourist.

Proudly. Happily.

When I finally get those millions of dollars Dame Fortune will shower down upon me, I’ll buy a very small place — millions ain’t much in San Francisco — to call my home-away-from-home and maybe come to grow tired of it. Though I doubt that.

I’ll post some more photos from San Francisco — my touristy shots of the Golden Gate Bridge, for example. Pretty stuff that deserves a big format but will never win artsy prizes.

I hope you don’t mind, but at the moment, I feel we need some pretty pictures before we get back to the real work of saving democracy and the world.