City Lights

The newest punctuation in my life is a brand new living situation, which is fantastic and enervating in a couple of ways. I used to hate San Francisco, because I figured it was basically a confusing and intensely dirty version of San Jose. I remember feeling uncomfortable about the notion, which seemed to be more true every time I visited The City, that the rules that apply everywhere else are void anywhere on the windy peninsula. It's a strange thing to feel like your instincts are irrelevant. But now I'm comfortable with the feeling, which, as it turns out, is reducible to a much more simple, and somewhat more pleasing maxim: everyone gets to act like an adult, and eclectic is encouraged.

The paramount example of that attitude is located about sixteen man-sized steps from my front door, and is actually much closer than that: the window that opens into my living room exposes the upper hill and playground of Dolores Park, the stoic jewel of the Mission District. Fifteen square blocks of rolling green, freckled with palm trees and a footer of basketball courts, are the most attractive option I have found for any day that needs filling. Everything is relaxed there: the attitude, the pace, the rules, the music that flows from novelty stereos and the tin drums of whoever is paddling away. A woman waddles by our strewn-about blanket, offering tamales. A man visits later, selling pot truffles. Old men with cheeks like the palm of a baseball glove collect recyclables and stuff them into muddy burlap sacks. A whiffleball game has started on the south hill, and a speck of plastic lofts across the 74 degree sky. The world teems here, but calmly, and on its own. Time seems to skirt away fluidly, while we lie under the sun and cars flit down the curvy streets lining the park. The earth bumps underneath our ripped cotton comforter, conversation snapshots dance themselves along the wind, and you can fall asleep before you stop smiling.