The Golden Gate

The taller flamingo was quite pleased with herself.

After several weeks of disastrous travel arrangements, she had finally managed to get them somewhere with an ocean, moderate temperatures, and a respectable reputation among tourists.

San Francisco.

The shorter flamingo remained cautious.

"How do we know we're actually in San Francisco?"

"Because we crossed a bridge."

"We've crossed lots of bridges."

"This one was enormous."

"Was it golden?"

"Not particularly."

"Then how do you know?"

The taller flamingo considered the question.

"Perhaps they repaint it occasionally."

Their journey from Death Valley had been surprisingly comfortable. The couple who had rescued them from the desert heat had stopped at a roadside antique shop near Bakersfield, where the flamingos were deposited among several ceramic garden gnomes, a cracked birdbath, and a concrete donkey missing one ear.

The shorter flamingo had found the donkey particularly irritating.

"He keeps staring at me."

"He's made of concrete."

"So are his manners."

Fortunately, they didn't remain long. A San Francisco couple looking for unusual garden decorations purchased both flamingos, remarking that their slightly crooked necks gave them character.

"Character," the shorter flamingo repeated indignantly as they were loaded into the back of a station wagon. "That's what people say when something is damaged."

"Think of it as distinction," replied the taller one.

"I used to be symmetrical."

The drive north was pleasant enough, although the shorter flamingo insisted on examining every road sign they passed.

She had become suspicious of geography.

By late afternoon, they were crossing the Bay Bridge, and the taller flamingo was certain their troubles were finally behind them.

"Look at all that water!"

"I see it."

"And the boats!"

"Yes."

"And the beautiful city!"

The shorter flamingo studied the crowded waterfront.

"Where are the palm trees?"

"Somewhere."

"You always say that."

"San Francisco is a large city."

"So is Miami. Miami has palm trees."

The taller flamingo chose not to respond.

Their new owners lived in a small house near the western edge of the city. The backyard was hardly tropical, but it contained a patch of grass, several flowering shrubs, and a weathered wooden fence that offered some protection from the afternoon breeze.

The flamingos were installed beside a birdbath.

For nearly an hour, everything was wonderful.

The temperature was comfortable. The sun appeared occasionally between passing clouds, and the shorter flamingo was delighted to discover that her plastic body no longer felt as though it were being slowly reshaped in an oven.

"This might actually work," she admitted.

"Of course it will."

"I like the birdbath."

"Naturally."

"And the flowers."

"Very nice."

"And nobody has mentioned snow."

The taller flamingo smiled.

"Welcome to paradise."

Then the fog arrived.

It came over the neighborhood in a great rolling blanket, swallowing the distant houses and turning the afternoon light a dull gray.

Within minutes, the garden had disappeared into a world of damp air and dripping leaves.

The shorter flamingo looked around uneasily.

"What happened?"

"Fog."

"I can see that."

"It's famous here."

"Why?"

"Apparently people find it charming."

The shorter flamingo considered this.

"I can't see the fence."

"It'll come back."

"Where did it go?"

"It's still there."

"How do you know?"

"Because fences don't usually migrate."

The shorter flamingo had no immediate answer to that.

A few minutes later, a cold wind swept through the garden, rattling the shrubs and sending a fine mist across their pink plastic feathers.

"Oh, wonderful," she muttered.

"What's wrong now?"

"It's cold."

"It's refreshing."

"It's wet."

"It's coastal."

"It's blowing sideways."

"That's called a sea breeze."

The shorter flamingo turned her slightly crooked neck toward her companion.

"You have a different word for everything unpleasant, don't you?"

The taller flamingo ignored the remark.

The next morning brought an unexpected development.

Their owners decided the flamingos would look much better at the family's weekend cottage near the Golden Gate Bridge, where they could be admired by passing pedestrians.

The birds were pulled from the garden, loaded into the car, and transported to a small property overlooking the entrance to San Francisco Bay.

The taller flamingo was ecstatic.

"The Golden Gate! At last!"

The shorter one looked toward the water.

"Where?"

"Right over there."

"I don't see anything."

"That's because of the fog."

"How convenient."

They were placed on a grassy patch beside a wooden railing overlooking the bay. Somewhere beyond the gray mist stood one of the world's most famous bridges.

They could hear traffic crossing it.

Occasionally, a faint orange tower appeared through the fog before disappearing again.

The taller flamingo watched with great enthusiasm.

"Magnificent!"

"We can barely see it."

"That's part of the experience."

"What experience?"

"The mystery."

The shorter flamingo sighed.

"I've had enough mystery."

For a while, they stood quietly, listening to the distant traffic and the mournful sound of foghorns drifting across the water.

Then the seagulls arrived.

Three large gulls landed on the railing nearby and regarded the flamingos with obvious curiosity.

One of them tilted its head.

"What are you supposed to be?"

The taller flamingo drew herself up proudly.

"Flamingos."

The gull looked her over.

"Never seen one of those around here."

"We're visiting."

"From where?"

"Florida."

The gull glanced at the shorter flamingo.

"Long trip?"

"You have no idea," she replied.

Another gull hopped closer.

"Can you fly?"

"Of course," said the taller flamingo.

The shorter one turned sharply.

"We cannot."

"Not at the moment," the taller flamingo corrected.

"Not ever."

The gulls exchanged glances.

"Then how'd you get here?"

The taller flamingo hesitated.

"Various transportation arrangements."

The largest gull gave a harsh, barking laugh.

"Tourists."

The gulls remained for several minutes, offering unsolicited opinions about the flamingos' appearance, their unusual posture, and the wisdom of standing on a windy overlook without functional wings.

Eventually, one of them noticed the shorter flamingo's bent neck.

"What happened to you?"

"Death Valley."

The gull nodded knowingly.

"That'll do it."

The shorter flamingo was beginning to dislike seagulls.

By afternoon, the wind had strengthened considerably.

The taller flamingo swayed on her metal legs, which had been pushed into the soft ground beside the railing. Her slightly distorted neck made her more vulnerable to sudden gusts, and she found herself leaning farther and farther toward the shorter bird.

"You're crowding me," the shorter one complained.

"It's the wind."

"Then lean the other way."

"I'm trying."

A particularly strong gust struck them from the west.

The taller flamingo tipped sideways, her metal legs pulling free of the damp soil.

For one terrible moment, she hung at an impossible angle.

Then she fell directly into the shorter flamingo.

Both birds toppled onto the grass.

There was a clatter of metal legs, a muffled thump, and a considerable amount of indignation.

"Get off me!"

"I'm trying!"

"Your beak is in my wing!"

"I can't move!"

"Well, this is just wonderful!"

They lay tangled together while the wind continued to blow across the overlook.

A seagull landed nearby.

"Having trouble?"

"Go away," said the shorter flamingo.

The gull laughed and flew off.

Fortunately, their owners returned before sunset.

Finding the flamingos lying in a heap, the woman shook her head.

"I told you it was too windy out here."

Her husband picked them up.

"Maybe we should put them somewhere more sheltered."

"Like inside?"

"Or take them down to the marina. My brother has that little place near Fisherman's Wharf."

The taller flamingo brightened immediately.

"Did you hear that?"

The shorter one was still trying to untangle her metal legs.

"Hear what?"

"Fisherman's Wharf!"

"Oh, no."

"Think about it. Water. Fish. Boats. Seabirds. It's practically a tropical resort."

The shorter flamingo stared at the three gulls circling overhead.

"Those birds are not tropical."

"Perhaps we'll meet some friendlier ones."

"Perhaps we'll be eaten."

"Flamingos are not generally eaten by seagulls."

"You said buffalo wouldn't eat us either."

"And they didn't."

"That's not the point."

Their owners carried them back to the car and laid them carefully across the rear seat.

As they drove toward the waterfront, the fog began to lift.

For the first time all day, the Golden Gate Bridge appeared clearly in the distance, its great orange towers rising above the blue water.

The taller flamingo was delighted.

"There it is!"

The shorter one looked through the window.

It was, she had to admit, rather beautiful.

The afternoon sunlight caught the bridge cables, and small sailboats moved across the bay far below. For a brief moment, the entire journey seemed almost worthwhile.

"Well," she said reluctantly, "that's something."

"I told you San Francisco would be wonderful."

"Don't push it."

They continued toward Fisherman's Wharf, passing crowded streets, restaurants, and tourists bundled against the cool afternoon air.

The taller flamingo watched everything with renewed enthusiasm.

"Look at all the seafood restaurants!"

"Yes."

"And the fishing boats!"

"Yes."

"And the sea lions!"

The shorter flamingo raised her head.

"The what?"

"Sea lions. Apparently, they live right on the docks."

The shorter flamingo considered this.

"Are they friendly?"

"I'm sure they are."

"Are they large?"

"Somewhat."

"Do they eat flamingos?"

The taller flamingo hesitated.

"I don't believe so."

The shorter flamingo closed her eyes.

She had heard that answer before.

Outside, the car turned toward Pier 39.

Somewhere ahead, a colony of enormous, noisy sea lions lounged on floating docks, barking at tourists and occasionally shoving one another into the water.

The taller flamingo was already imagining a pleasant waterfront retirement.

The shorter one had a different thought.

"Just once," she said quietly, "I'd like to go somewhere where the local wildlife doesn't outweigh us by several hundred pounds."

The taller flamingo considered this.

"Perhaps Hawaii."

The shorter flamingo opened one eye.

"Hawaii?"

"Warm weather. Beautiful beaches. Palm trees everywhere."

"That actually sounds promising."

"And it's surrounded by water."

"How do we get there?"

The taller flamingo looked thoughtful.

"Well, obviously, we'd have to fly."

There was a long silence.

Then the shorter flamingo said something that caused even the taller one to reconsider her travel plans.

"We don't have wings."

"Technically, we do."

"We have molded plastic decorations that look like wings."

"Details."

The shorter flamingo stared out the window.

Florida.

All she wanted was Florida.

A warm patio, a quiet swimming pool, and a little plastic alligator who knew enough to keep his mouth shut.

Instead, she was heading toward a colony of sea lions with a companion who was considering an ocean crossing.

And somehow, she suspected, things were about to get worse.