So my houseguest Bob Webber, he of the multitudinous guestbook entries, had to leave early this weekend. Apparently, he was overcome by an entire week of meetings on Internet Protocol and Standards though he swears it was just a headache that got out of control. I think my three pets may have contributed to the headache by being furry, but he was too polite to say so. At least we all got to eat Chinese food, and talk, and sleep in on Saturday, and lie around doing stuff on computers in the same room whilst chatting desultorily, and eat at the Peninsula Creamery, and talk some more. It was fun. I like having houseguests. I regret not having a separate bedroom for them, though, because no matter what I do the cats will come visiting and curl up on any prone body in the living room. Woe to him with allergies who hopes to avoid the friendly beasts of Snoutly Manor.
The weekend before this one I went up to the City by myself and mooched around for hours. I tried to replace my Roxette cassettes with CDs and ended up with Natalie Imbruglia and Madonna instead. Weirdly enough, I like both pretty well although I'm hugely unimpressed by Madonna's lyrics as always. For a while I shopped for clothes at Macy's but bought nothing. Man, this garage-mechanic chic just leaves me cold. Nasty little stripey sweaters and polyester pants, ugh. Everyone looks terrible in them, even cute people. I hope someone brings back yummy colors instead of this drab palate of mustard and grey and greasy green.
I grew tired of shopping eventually and drove around the city revisiting at my old haunts, marveling at how much had changed or stayed the same in the eight years I was gone. At sunset I drove up to Twin Peaks, hurrying around the sharp curves of the road. The sun sank behind a black cloudbank just as I pulled into a parking spot. I thought I'd missed the best part of the day, but it peeked out again for a few minutes before slipping below the horizon, bathing the city in a gorgeous tangerine light. I lingered among the German tourists and crowds of giggling schoolkids, ignoring them all and letting my eyes take in the panorama of the Bay at twilight.
I adore vistas, being high above everything and looking out over the land while the wind blows my hair around. I especially like looking down on San Francisco. It makes me feel protective, and joyous, and fierce. I like to trace the uneven geometry of white and pastel out in the Mission as it flows into industrial warehouses and highrises downtown or squeezes upwards into a series of brightly colored Victorian gingerbread clustered along the Haight and Noe Valley. Something about the act of looking so intently at each section makes it part of me. That evening I sat there for a long time, thinking about how glad I was to be back, watching the city slowly change as the light dimmed and gathered into dark pools of shadows and fled away over the sea to follow the sun.
