The city reminds me of sad incidents and failures. That’s why I used to hate coming back here. But now I want to find things I like, to make it even. So I walk around, rather aimlessly, to find them, making a list. It seems that what I like about the city has no specific narratives: The blue sky, houses painted white, bottlebrush trees, hummingbirds, eucalyptus, yellow reflectors on wooden telephone poles, colorful paper decorations in a taqueria, Spanish language on Mission Street, and rustling sounds of palm trees—they’re not stories, but hard evidences that allow me to be part of the picture or the rhythm, without any excuses, explanations.
I’m still alive, not dead.
And I stumble upon an old diner at the corner of Octavia and Market—this one has a specific story. This is where I made J. laugh, and he made me laugh for the first time, seventeen years ago. I’m still alive, not dead.
An invitation to be in the moment
This morning we decided on a spontaneous trip to Baker Beach with our two-year-old son.
Our city by the bay is done with Summer. That summertime fog that we wake up to is no more.
Homeward bound after a month in the USA
One day-One Hour- One Minute- It will happen. It is inevitable. Except it already has.
Top 10 Things To Do In San Francisco
If you live in San Francisco, you know to avoid Eddy and Leavenworth Street... *stab*
Wrote this the day after the attacks in Paris but was reminded of it this morning when I read the news about the bombing in Turkey
In Search of Color