Ferris Wheel – Pam Troy

CHEF AMADEO ROSELYN

I have a distinct image of my main character of All Is Lost. This is as close as AI can get to him, which means it’s less my image of ugly, small, belligerent Amadeo Roselyn than it would be a casting director’s for the filmed version of my novel. Filmed versions almost always balk at realistically depicting characters described in books as “ugly.” I’ve yet to see Marian Halcombe depicted in movies as Collins describes her in The Woman in White, and Peter Dinklage, as great as his performance was, does not fit the image of Tyrion Lannister I got from the books. My Amadeo is not as square-jawed, and certainly not as humorless as the slightly Byronic image AI came up with.

There’s a lot of talk about AI online these days, and justifiable controversy over AI art possibly supplanting the paid work of artists. All I can say is that subtlety doesn’t seem to be its strong suit, and I find it fairly easy to spot. If I were to ever have the option of an illustrated version, I’d entrust the work to a human being who can understand things like “nuance.”

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ANDREA AND HER PLANT

Yesterday was gloriously sunny, and at last I took a spin on the Ferris wheel at Fisherman’s Wharf. SkyStar, it’s called. It used to be in Golden Gate Park, but I think this location is far better, more in the thick of things.

A friend I met along the way came along. The Ferris wheel has become a landmark visible from quite a distance, so we simply walked down the hill towards it, my friend pausing to rescue a bedraggled Elephant Ear plant she found abandoned on a curb. Nobody, either in the line for tickets, or the line to board, commented on the drooping potted plant she held in her arms. “Everyone assumes old women are crazy anyway,” was her explanation.

The cars are small, enclosed, glassy lozenges rather than open, rocking benches in the sky, which I would have found more thrilling. I suppose it’s a question of both safety and comfort. The winds off the bay can be pretty cold. We took our seats, and began to rise slowly, pausing as each car was loaded. Once everyone had boarded the wheel turned, steadily, slowly, rising, offering views of Fisherman’s Wharf and the Bay, downtown San Francisco, and a beautiful mackeral sky rippled with clouds glowing in the afternoon sun. If I looked over my shoulder I could see Pier 39, dark with crowds, the sea-lions, who seemed shy that day, a little black clump on the corner of one of the docks.

The wheel rotates three times after loading, very slowly, with a minimum of rocking. For San Francisco residents our age, it’s quite reasonably priced, though they did take our picture and try to sell it to us for $46. We politely declined.

My friend walked home with her new pet. I plunged into North Beach in search of a cafe that sold wine by the glass. The one I found was cash-only, so I settled for a bar, the Comstock, where I sat at a little marble table, happily sipping a rose and alternately reading a novel and the latest New Yorker. I haven’t enjoyed reading so much since the days when I would curl up on my parents’ couch with a book and a plate of bacon sandwiches.

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Pam Troy

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