When I knew for sure we’d be moving to San Francisco, I researched the city online. I read a lot about the cable cars and their history and construction. I know the ropes and brakes are supposed to be safe, but I’m not entirely convinced. As I watch the people climb off and the car execute a complicated, man-powered turnaround, I’m getting a little apprehensive.

“Don’t worry,” Milo says quietly in my ear. “It’s fun.”

A warm, melty feeling spreads from my ear to the rest of my body. I smile and let him lead me to a seat while he and Thane stand, hanging out over the street. I look around and see that other riders are hanging out over the street too, but it doesn’t make me any less nervous.

My eyes stay squeezed tightly shut most of the ride, so I don’t remember much. There are a lot of jerks and stutters, and one time, when the car stops for a couple minutes, I hear a lot of shouting. I force one eye open and find Thane and Milo gone. Panicked, I lean out to search for them, only to find them—and a bunch of other passengers—actually pushing the car up the track. I keep my eyes open long enough for Thane and Milo to return to their spots, and then clamp them shut again.

Two stops later, as the car slowly climbs up a hill, I feel a warmth on my cheek just before Milo whispers, “You’re going to miss the best part.”

Despite my fear, I force my eyes open. For a second, Milo fills my vision. Then he leans back and reveals the view. We’re at an intersection at the high point of a hill. Straight in front of me is a narrow street leading steeply down to a wider one, full of light and lanterns and activity. It’s beautiful.

I smile at Milo for making me open my eyes.

I smile even bigger when he smiles back.

At the next stop, Milo’s hand wraps around mine and tugs me to my feet. We’ve survived. Next time, I’ll keep my eyes open the whole time.

“This is the world-famous Chinatown,” he says, still holding my hand as he leads me down a very steep street.

My heart is racing, and not just because of the harrowing ride.

“And this,” he says, pulling up in front of a glass storefront full of hanging meats and birds and unidentifiable things, “is the world’s best dim sum parlor.”

Although I can sort of see through the windows, they have layers of dirt caked at the corners, as if every so often someone grabs a rag to wipe only the centers. It doesn’t exactly scream Great Place to Eat. Or even No Health Code Violations.