The Streets of San Francisco

Depending on my Chinese trip batteries, I try to capture the hussle and bussle of one of my favorite places on earth: Tartine’s Bakery. Charge battery symbol flashing red, I get about 3 crap shots and the camera switches off, rolls in the lens as if to say, I tried to warn you.

San Francisco California. My home, almost. And yes- I meant to delete the comma between city and state. I am back, and- well the city did not notice my absence-but that‘s okay. In fact, its how it should be. I believe, besides my family, this city, this beat, this constant move and groove left my heart aching for more. I missed it. I craved it. I had left my heart in it.

Walking through the Mission District, I take in all the sites and scenes that my soul carefully stored and used to measure the worth of each new city I entered. All came up short, as they lack the people, colors, smells, tastes that connect me to the human race. This place has it all…all of US. Each one is represented vividly, some with more pride and power than others…yet represented none the less.

Searching for parking, we slowly pass two vaqueros carrying their guitarras like peacock tails as they saunter pass the bright and bold murals that tell the historias of the progenitors. Metal piercings glitter in the bright sun as we walk passed young kids having a lively discussion that only Jerry Springer could rival for its shock and relevance. Stretching calves past their natural capacity we hit the top of a hill, just to slide right down to the distant sizzle of marimbas in the park. Wind whipped yet warmed by the sun, Sasha drops her slobbered tennis ball at our feet, and quickly finds a hiding place in the folds of Jessica’s black skirt, either relishing or unpulsed by our hands’ instant attention to her sleek fur and muzzle.

Long haired boys, muscled girls, and hairless dogs comb the streets. The young, the old, the fashion minded and the absent minded each add to this jigsaw of culture and couture. When men in tights with red boa-ed outlined wings are met with knowing smiles and SUVs with scowls. Ukuleles strummed by white hands, salsa swung by narrow Chinese hips, skirts swayed by bearded men- these everyday occurrences bring relief to my sense of being. Surround by so many bucking the norm, it is easy to be the norm, and lose any compulsions to live up to ‘expectations’.

Sitting here, at the family size (even Headley family sized) common table in Tartine, looking out into the intersection of 18th and Guerrero I am overjoyed to be me. Such an array of the world saunters past, unawares to my eye, and it fills me with a sense of belonging-without pressure. I become aware of this confidence of self- my intelligence, beauty, and worth- just from choosing to love and accept them, my world wise brothers and sisters.

It’s good to be home, even if its just for a bit.