Curious visitors at the Wienermobile always ask the Hotdoggers what the best part of their job is. For me, discovering the quirky traditions of American cities is something I relish about my hotdog travels. San Francisco has one ritual I will never forget.
Once the clock tower struck six, the Valentine’s Day fighting began. Thousands of people crammed into a usually-peaceful square in San Francisco and began attacking each other with fluffy bedthings. There was bomping and whomping, swatting and squishing, but these friendly fighters came bearing smiles and took turns giggling. Soon a soft layer of feathery snow covered the ground. After an hour of wielding my pillow, I had to retaliate to the sidelines. I had swallowed a few too many feathers. The more experienced San Franciscans fought into the wee hours of the night. And why not? This was a dream come true.