San Francisco blows at you a moist wind, all of the time. So even though the temperatures are summery (at least by east coast standards), I feel chilly. Austere spires on an uphill road close to the Mission are often interspersed with parrot green or bright yellow facades. And murals of tall grasshoppers and hatted humans. Down at the mission coffee brews amidst Spaniard signboards. Hair is braided here. Yoga is taught here. Things come wrapped in avocado.
One walks down Valencia. Ignoring dimly lit community rooms of quiet spiritual quests. And peeping in at cafes that grew out of workshops. That's why their ceilings are so high. Cafe - occupants peer into their mac-screens concocting the next social media adventure. San Francisco, in all its light-footed sadness, is a bit eerie to me. As if it must eternally bear the markers of a long-ago carnival. People walk around in their costumic gait - as if sadly reminiscing about an old carnival, as if they never washed the paint off their faces, and could still hear the tingly laughter and trumpets, as they try to keep up the carnivalesque gait today.
Imaginative business, organic vegetables, moistness and a fear of any form of a shackle come together to make this weirdly free city. The show's over, and they just couldn't snap out of its spell.