San Francisco, The Memory

Because it's another sunny day in San Francisco, I owe him a drink.

Snow is what I bet on. And vodka martinis. It's the second bar of the night and I find myself ordering two. I came to San Francisco on my first business trip alone, an adult working and traveling in the professional world, and discover myself acting like a college student. He and I drink far too much far too late every night, I use my lunch break on the second day of conference to throw up, and too much money disappears as we gallivant through the city until last call. I am drunk most of the time, but, importantly, happy.

We chat our way through San Francisco, mainly on foot, after the end of my 5 pm work-day, everyday. He points at things we pass and recites history facts he learned in grade school. I don't know most of what he tells me about his California home. It's show and tell and it's exciting.

Our climb to the top of every steep street is rewarded with a view of the city, each time different but each time with lights twinkling in the darkening distance. The stars in San Francisco look the same as the stars in any city I've been to in the east, I make a note. We do all exist, people beneath the same sky.

Fisherman's Wharf may be my favorite part. We catch a cable car there and, like in the movies, you catch them in slow motion! And then the Chinese man in a rain coat tells you not to stand where you are standing, smack dab in the middle of the forbidden yellow area. So you move, closer to the person you came with, and you view the city in a more human way. You take pictures through the rain droplets, and it feels unreal as you aim your lens behind you, towards the rushing traffic, while he tells you to please, put the camera strap around your wrist. You return to reality.

You aren't brave enough to stand on the step ladder while the cable car moves. But it's okay, no one else is, either.

At the Wharf, it is cold, windy and rainy. I see Alcatraz in the distance and it is not too cold to pause and snap a picture. The Wharf has fresh seafood stands, sweet factories, and a Houdini magic shop! Behind one of the stores, floating docks provide a place for 50 wild seals to huddle together on their backs, for warmth (and connection, I suppose). They are safe from sharks here, I remark, and he laughs, obviously, and agrees.

We buy a handful of flauntingly flavored salt water taffy and eat it before dinner, listening to a man play the flute, classic, and watch another man swallow fire, pretty average. I feel like a kid at a carnival.

We decide on decadent hot chocolate in Ghiradelli square. Our blood pumping sugar and chemical energy, we hit the first bar before dinner. I find myself playing a pathetic game of pool and paying my dues in vodka martinis at the second bar. But it's the light beer I order with my late-night enchiladas that puts me over the edge.

The next morning I have to leave San Francisco to go home east. I feel something, besides hung over. Inspired? I feel new. And I felt sad when I said goodbye.