San Francisco
Days 185 – 187
July 1 – 3
San Francisco, California
I shivered as I crossed the
Golden Gate Bridge and entered the dirtiest, smelliest, most strung-out and
homeless city on my summer route. The
morning fog blown in from the Pacific doesn’t always quite burn off in the San
Francisco bay, but it is always worst in the morning. I cursed my reluctance to buy new gloves;
mine were still full of holes and letting out all of that precious heat that I
needed to keep my hands working the controls properly. Only one person could make visiting such a
frigid and foggy shithole worthwhile.
That person is my Mom, the impromptu beautiful lotus blooming from the
mud pile they named San Francisco. Since
Los Angeles would have been a long detour after Yosemite, she agreed to meet me
and Jonathan in the city for a few days before I turned north on Pacific Coast
Highway. She was more than happy to join
us for three days as super tourists in Instagram Hell.
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| Hot fudge sundae break at the Ghirardelli chocolate store. |
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| We were disappointed to find no hippies playing guitar at Haight-Ashbury. |
We had a grand old time,
despite the fact that our non-English-speaking Uber driver made a wrong turn
and took us through the Tenderloin on the way to San Francisco Park (just
Google “Tenderloin San Francisco” if
you’ve never been; it’s not pretty). But
the rest of the trip was memorable. I’m
grateful that I get to spend time with my Mom like this.
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| And I got to exercise my shutter finger at the Botanical Garden. |
And after three days (the
length of time before both fish and guest stink, according to Benjamin Franklin,
who is obviously never wrong), I parted ways with both Jonathan and my Mom,
heading north with a new passenger: Lynzee.
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