San Francisco, CA
It was a sunny day, mid 70s, ”unseasonably warm” according to every San Franciscan I met. San Franciscans love to talk about the weather. One man lamented the ubiquitous conversation: ”it’s always the same weather here. Why is everyone always talking about it?” I tried to explain what a novelty it was for a Canadian to be wearing shorts in February to justify the conversation. He shrugged me off.
Jeff and I went down to walk around Golden Gate Park. We had met on the UC Berkeley campus a few days before, where we threw around a frisbee for a few hours until after dark. He was a pot grower-cum-activist and told me stories of the time he spent in jail in China, where he protested for the Tibetan cause during the 08 Olympics. We drove into the city and had a midday brunch on the Haight at a restaurant he chose for the waitresses: ”not the hottest,” he told me, ”but solid”. It was a Thursday, and it seemed like the whole city was playing hooky. We walked the length of the park in the sunshine, stopping occasionally to throw the frisbee energetically before arriving at the beach for sunset. I started to feel as if I was fitting in, but just barely.