So, thanks to Casey, now everyone keeps saying that I'm living on vacation.
Which, kind of, I am -- but it's more like a super intense business trip. Lots of work, lately, so much less time to write about adventures. Or, kind of? To have them. Anyway, so, right -- here's my random photos from my Sunday evening walk.
Today, I walked through the Castro, back through Noe Valley and the Haight.
It's a foggy evening, which is welcome enough after a solid two weeks of dazzling sunshine, crisp, clean, blue-skied days. The type of day where the air is cool, there is a vast temperature difference between sunny spots and shady spots. The type of day where the light pops every little detail into focus, highlights the texture of the walls, creates perfect, sharp, clean lines along the rooftops. Those days are especially dazzling in a place where all the architecture is washed with bright colors, pastels, whites -- the streets become traps for the light, it bursts from every surface except where there are sudden sharp shadows, expanses of dark sidewalk you squint into, stepping back into coolness.
Not, though, this evening -- when the fog rolls over the hills and through the streets, dense billows made up of millions of fine droplets of water, blown by the breeze from the ocean, trapped in the trees and pouring from alleyways, long hills plunge into clouds beneath you, towering peaks above you create whirling vortexes.
It feels like a cool mist on your skin, it creates a sense of sweet melancholy, a sense you can enjoy because you recognize it as just a moment.
It smells like water, and salt, and pungent, sappy green, like sharp eucalyptus, like pot smoke, like grilled meats. It smells like rotting vegetables, some sweet floral smell that evokes my grandmother's Maryland garden. It looks like. . .
well, I guess it looks like this --