We walk across the Golden Gate, trying to imagine the way the area once looked. The absence of a bridge and buildings, the abundance of vegetation and wildlife, the grizzlies that adorn our flag but have long since vanished from our state.
Wind pushes the fog over the bridge like waves, splattering our faces with condensation. Tourists who didn’t anticipate the cold walk by in newly purchased jackets, socks worn with dress sandals, and some are unprepared in flip flops and shorts. It is August, after all.
I turn to the east and see where the fog meets the sun and look forward to heading towards light and tiny bit of warmth. I turn to the west to see and the ocean and the horizon. As always, the curvature of the earth sends a surge of wanderlust through me as I think of the places to explore beyond it.
The sounds of hundreds of cars driving by combine and become white noise. In my head, all I hear is this melody:
{ 2 comments }
It’s just before 8am on a mid-May Sunday morning in San Francisco. People celebratorily stumble down the streets as if it’s Saturday night. You see a group of people in coordinated gladiator costumes role playing as if it’s Halloween. As you walk towards the bay, you see little corn tortillas covering the ground as if several tortilla-filled trucks collided and spilled their contents all over the street. What the hell is going on? It must be 
