Looking up at the small sign that says Uscita, as the street car rattles and shakes down the Embarcadero along the San Francisco Bay, I think about what it means, to exit, to get out, to leave.
Like so many before it, this tram, complete with all of its original elements, left its home in Milan, destined to ride along the streets of San Francisco, a beautiful relic of the old country. All the Italian signs still remain, some plastered with English words next to it and some without translation. It is by all accounts a Milanese tram, but somehow more striking in contrast to its foreign setting, surrounded by California palm trees.
