The beloved cable cars are pulled up and down some of the steeper streets of San Francisco—adventuresome transportation. The mechanical workings creak and groan—the driver rings his bell like a madman. The cars grunt up hills, and careen down—when not stopped behind an unconsciously parked delivery truck. The driver rings his bell again.

The open sides of the car exposed a friend and me to the rain and cold wind today. (A worker from a restaurant, a box above his head for protection from the elements, took one look at my sopping pants and laughed out loud.) The ride back, we stood on the sideboard, clinging to the rail. The people in the cars and trucks around us were safely boxed and belted and warmed. We felt no envy.

The friendship has elements of endurance and unpredictability, charm and weathered paint, history and fanatical love, not unlike the little cable cars.