I descended around 7,000 feet from Santa Fe to sea level in order to stay in San Francisco for a little. Instead of the thin, crisp, dry, cold air that I’m used to, I’m breathing this oxygen-rich, humid, nearly-touchable substance that settled noticeably on my skin as soon as I got off the plane. While Mark Twain claimed that his worst winter was a summer in San Francisco, compared to the ice and snow where I’m coming from, the winter here feels pleasantly summery.
The rain covers everything with a lush and green carpet. Ever so often the sun stops the drippy clouds and turns the raindrops and puddles into sparkly jewels and miniature rainbows. The colors are intense and lovely: tufts of bright-yellow sourgrass grow on top of a bright-purple wall that has some red/orange hearts painted on it. Viewed from the bottom of a steep street, some trees covered with a profusion of pink blossoms stand outlined against a soft, dark-grey sky. A peach-colored house with sage-green trims sits next to a building painted violet-blue.
I spend a lot of time just walking around, and I notice things like this:
At the Bernal Bubbles, a laundromat in Bernal Heights, you can follow the “sock exchange”: single socks of all shapes and colors hang on a bulletin board next to a sign that reads”Take one and/or leave one”.
It’s fun to return to a familiar place and see it with fresh eyes.