(At least I didn’t go to Fisherman’s Wharf. Besides, cliched view notwithstanding, Alamo Square is a very groovy dog park).
Devyn and I are back from our coastal sojourns and it’s official: he wants to move to New York (eventually), and I want to move to San Francisco (yesterday if possible, please). The unbridled density and punishing beauty of SFO are mind boggling. Devyn reminds me San Francisco has earthquakes. Well, NYC has terrorist attacks. And unlike terrorists, the earthquakes aren’t actually trying to kill you. For now, we content in the midwestern middle.
Observations…I can’t believe they complain about Muni, its transit service is miles ahead of the CTA. (Meanwhile, can someone please, um, clean BART? Three bucks just to cross the bay, you shouldn’t have to sit on wino stains).
The view from the top of Mission Dolores Park beats Alamo Square’s any day.
Gay couple walks hand-in-hand past homeboys in a scruffy part of the Sunset, nobody bats an eye.
Scruffy Sunset is redundant.
Oh God, the density, the density. Can we please import that to Chicago?
Fewer homeless thanks to Gavin Newsom, yet I still have to call 911 on a gang fight at the Powell Street cable car turnaround.
Somehow makes me grateful SFO isn’t perfect. But standing at the top of Lombard, at 10 p.m., when the tourists are firmly ensconced in North Beach or bed and it’s finally quiet and deserted, gazing across to Telegraph Hill and the line of lights twinkling atop the East Bay hills beyond, with the faint clang of a cable car bell in the distance, you’d sure think that it was.
Ten percent of the San Francisco that I shot. (Captions are for pishers…)