San Francisco state of mind: The big old boats slow dance into the bay, and the tall, skinny palms down Embarcadero wave in the breeze like a Tina Tuner hair shake. And then there are the Ethiopian taxi drivers who tell me they haven't been to Addis in eight years but still feel they were happier there than here. And then there's the American Samoan taxi driver who speaks goodnight in Samoan and teaches me about Pago-Pago. And then there's the language play in the Berkeley Hills, bodies cartwheeling over the infinity bridge. And then there's City Lights and Chinatown and old espresso bars where the cops look like they're wearing uniforms for a play about themselves in a play about North Beach. And then what about the chilequiles at the farmers market where seagulls sulked with the homeless while I sipped on an ice-cold pineapple-cucumber juice? And then there's a full house of gay couples at the play about unlikely love. And then there's the way the sunlight kisses all the buildings pink, like we're in Paris. And then there's the chocolate shop and the tired elderly on the #30 bus and the Whole Foods and the no food spare change and the private Google Yelp Twitter shuttles and the shuffle of celebrities under cover over brunch. And the cat at the hipster bar. And the tired man with saucer eyes who came in late for a burrito. And the app for this and the app for that and no app-etite for any of it. That, and the catapulting, leaping, skipping stones of it. No mission in the Mission anymore, but a mission, still. Bless this little cottage nest. Bless this me here in the now.
