I used to enjoy Sundays in San Francisco. I’d get up early, somewhere between the Fisherman’s Wharf and 4th down the Market Street. I’d grab a coffee from one of the early-opened Starbucks inhaling the morning breeze from the bay.
San Francisco mornings around Market Street aren’t pretty. Cop patrols checking survival rates of the homeless hordes, cleaning department hosing down piss and shit and blood.
I tend to go at New York speed and hold my breath walking between the 6th and 8t street; it’s the safest thing to do.
I only grab the tram if it’s not too crowded and if there are spaces by the window. You never know what smells to expect once aboard. It can be a long ride all the way up to Castro.
And then it’s on foot, all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge park. Hippies were still around last time I was there, and it’s tough to comprehend what sort of a life that is. It’s survival.
But I and hordes of six-figure income high-tech workers go about our weekend in The Park. I usually make it to the botanical gardens before taking off my shoes and dropping on the grass. Just lying there, inhaling the Bay air, usually listening to American Folk. Freedom.
I used to dream and orchestrate many a diabolical plan on that lawn. When there, I don’t want to leave. Until I think about the Japanese Tea Garden. My favorite zen spot in SF.
It’s tough to find calm among the usual crowds, but I love to grab miso soup and green matcha tea. I play with the pebbles on the center table, and once I stole one. It’s still in my travel bag.
Wandering around the entire Park, and then back into the city, via Haight Ashbury, all the way down to the Fisherman’s Wharf. That’s about thirty thousand steps. Awesome day of walking. A nice Sunday in San Francisco.
Or at least it used to be.