Isn't the idea of a trolley so quaint and precious?  It's like perfect lace curtains covering the sunny beams from the window of the perfect, little cottage where candy canes pave lanes and unicorns poo mint chocolate chip ice cream.  How fucken lovely. 

There you have it.  SF is very beautiful, quaint, precious.  It's like if you take the prettiest street in Park Slope, sprinkle it all over the city, add a heavy and generous dose of crack heads and piss-reeking junkies, you get SF.  I have yet to find the raisin of its perfectly golden, sweet brioche.  It will probably take some digging through the sweet fluffy interior to reach the tiny, shriveled brown perfection.