Recently, I’ve been more in love with San Francisco than usual. I’m
not sure why – perhaps the weather, perhaps moving to a neighborhood I
like more, perhaps visiting my home town – but I am in love, and will
continue to be for some time.
I love long, narrow San Francisco shops that need mirrors on the walls
so people don’t feel claustrophobic. I love drinking wine on the
sidewalk while waiting for a table in a tiny French restaurant. I
love sidewalks with stairs in them. I love that you can get a better
view from the J-Church street car than from the window of any
restaurant in the city.
I love taking the California cable car to somewhere. I love
that nervous tourists sit on the benches facing outward and bored
black-clad commuters sit inside and read the Wall Street Journal. I
love that there are people who dream of being a cable car operator,
and that they get to live their dream and clatter up and down Nob Hill
all day long.
I love that Market and 4th feels like Manhattan, and that the
Embarcadero feels like nowhere else on earth.
I love the clouds and the fog and the mist on the edge of the ocean.
I love standing on Nob Hill and watching the sun turn pale and fade
away as it sets. I love the way the clouds pour endlessly over the
mountains and dissolve away into nothing before they touch the ground.
I love that you can see this every day for months when you drive down
I-280 to Mountain View.
I love wearing a coat in June. I love not sweating. I love sitting
on the grass in Dolores Park with a thousand other happy people. I
love that there’s a guy who practices hula hoop for hours in the
center of the park, listening to his iPod and lost to the world.
I love brunch that doesn’t even start until 11am.
I love deciding which bar to go to. I love hailing a cab when I’m
tired and knowing I’ll be home in a few minutes. I love listening to
the cab driver talking to his friends on his cell phone and not having
the faintest idea what language he is speaking.
I love San Francisco.