Last month, my husband, our 6-year-old daughter, and I flew from Nashville to San Francisco for our yearly visit with my brother and his family. Every time, my nervous system exhales amid the city’s coastal air, iconic bridges, Victorian architecture, and a kaleidoscope of culture and cuisine.

After admiring the painted ladies in Alamo Square, trekking down Clement with hauls of books and coffee, and devouring noodles at our beloved Chinese lunch spot, we gifted our daughter the quintessential San Francisco experience: a cable car ride from Market Street to Ghirardelli. We’d end the afternoon with hot fudge sundaes and a view of the Canadian Snowbirds streaking overhead.

Upon boarding, we found ourselves wedged beside two couples traveling together, each armed with cameras, mics, and the pulse of high agenda. Throughout the 30-minute ride, their every moment was produced. Outfits were continuously smoothed. Makeup retouched. Lines rehearsed and rerecorded with a variety of inflections and tones.

The city unfolded around us, vibrating with aliveness, commerce, and sloping streets lined with cypress trees. I watched my daughter’s eyes gape with amazement. Meanwhile, for the couples beside us, it seemed like merely a backdrop to a story they were selling.

As we reached the final stop, the conductor playfully asked my daughter her age, then grinned and invited her to ring the bell six times. She did—each clang proud and delighted. But seconds later, as she was still giggling, one of the men hauling a large camera approached us with a hurried stance, asking my husband if we’d step aside so he could film his partner hanging from the car.

We were clearly encroaching upon their performance. We’d become extras on their stage—in the spirit of living our lives.

A moment later, I glanced back to notice them hopping off and scanning for their next set. The contrast between the........

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