It’s another lazy San Francisco afternoon and I’m at a loose end, so I wander down to the Marina where giant kites fill the blue-blue sky. A green teddy bear, 50-foot long with a rainbow tie; an octopus with floating tentacles that stretch in flailing gossamer across the park; zooming and diving attack kites, languid drifting balloon kites and a million painted rags in between. High above them a big white blimp ghosts across the bay towards the Golden Gate. Down by the water, seagulls line the front waiting for the scraps of tourists and fishermen. An onshore breeze wafts in a flock of sails as a regatta draws to a colourful spinnaker close right before me. All is bright, light, pale blue late summer gay and San Francisco is out to play. Ferries bustle back and forth, creasing serious wakes between the pleasure-boat fray.
Now a fog bank begins to make its inexorable way up the bay, slowly devouring the light and heat like a hungry Pacific monster. The foghorns begin to moan, smaller craft hurry for home, kites are hauled to reluctant earth. Alcatraz Island grows a white head, a grey beard, and is gradually swallowed.
I cut inland and uptown onto Russian Hill to spy the land from above the blanket. The fog has paused over Fisherman’s Wharf. Everything to the east is swathed in grey; to the west all is bathed in the honeyed light of sunset. Up a long flight of steps I pass a photo shoot. The faun in a skimpy, green-glitter dress and too much make-up, primps, pouts and flaunts for the photographer. Heavy mascara lashes nod up and down in slow motion like blinds. A leg is raised, breasts squeezed, eyes widen in mock delight, mouth pursed, yea baby, love the lens. Behind her, the hillside is dotted with goats, hired by the city to trim the grass that’s too precipitous to reach with mowers.
From the crest of Lombard Street I look down on North Beach and the east bay beyond. The blimp cruises by, stars and stripes fly from every mast, a tram comes clickety clacking past ringing its bell and pausing on the rise to give its patrons the best view in town. A crowd gathers, cars queue to drive down the Crookest Street. There’s a festival atmosphere. Car stereos play, tourists ask to have each others’ pictures taken. This feels like a celebration of the last of summer “¦
