The City (n.) / San Francisco Photography
early 13c., in medieval usage a cathedral town, but originally “any settlement,” regardless of size (distinction from town is 14c., though in English it always seems to have ranked above borough), from Old French cite (10c., Modern French cité), from earlier citet, from Latin civitatem (nominative civitas; in Late Latin sometimes citatem) originally “citizenship, condition or rights of a citizen, membership in the community,” later “community of citizens, state, commonwealth” (used, for instance of the Gaulish tribes), from civis “townsman,” from PIE root (kei- “to lie; bed, couch; homestead; beloved, dear”).
The sense has been transferred from the inhabitants to the place. The Latin word was urbs, but a resident was civis. Civitas replaced urbs as Rome (the ultimate urbs) lost its prestige.
San Francisco is The City from 1850s.
When I was a child growing up in Salinas we called San Francisco “the City”. Of course it was the only city we knew, but I still think of it as the City, and so does everyone else who has ever associated with it. A strange and exclusive work is “city”. Besides San Francisco, only small sections of London and Rome stay in the mind as the City. New Yorkers say they are going to town. Paris has no title but Paris. Mexico City is the Capital.
Once I knew the City very well, spent my attic days there, while others were being a lost generation in Paris. I fledged in San Francisco, climbed its hills, slept in its parks, worked on its docks, marched and shouted in its revolts. In a way I felt I owned the City as much as it owned me.
San Francisco put on a show for me. I saw her across the bay, from the great road that bypasses Sausalito and enters the Golden Gate Bridge. The afternoon sun painted her white and gold—rising on her hills like a noble city in a happy dream. A city on hills has it over flat-land places. New York makes its own hills with craning buildings, but this gold and white acropolis rising wave on wave against the blue of the Pacific sky was a stunning thing, a painted thing like a picture of a medieval Italian city which can never have existed. I stopped in a parking place to look at her and the necklace bridge over the entrance from the sea that led to her. Over the green higher hills to the south, the evening fog rolled like herds of sheep coming to cote in the golden city. I’ve never seen her more lovely. When I was a child and we were going to the City, I couldn’t sleep for several nights before, out of busting excitement. She leaves a mark.
San Francisco Photography: Ansel Adams, Imogen Cunningham, Dorothea Lange, Minor White…
