I was doing the tourist thing, walking up Alamo Square to see the Painted Ladies for the first time. I stop in the middle of the road because I see the Bay, all of it. The Bay is unreal, compared to the mud bayous and sludge harbors that are familiar to me. Miles of city, split by asphalt, running down to the water, and I couldn't move. I thought about taking a picture. I ended up inhaling, trying to take it all in, exhaling, and reluctantly, continuing on.

Some things fluctuate too fast to write about. What I know is this. The same city has inspired millions of paper, no matter the decade, the circumstance, the background. Grime next to cathedrals. Plant shop in a refashioned warehouse, supports brilliant red holding up a roof of rust and cellophane. The past and the future fighting for space: that conflict in turn becomes the richness. Smells of honeysuckle and dumpster, intermixed. Park cutting through city, trees dappled with sun. City on a hill.

I would like to see the Bay up close, hike the bridge in deep fog and without, see Mill Valley and Mendocino, go to the Museum of Modern Art, walk the Golden Gate Park and back, visit Richmond and the Marina more closely. I am eternally grateful that I didn't grow up here so I can see this, for the first time, at this specific point in my life, with these eyes. For now, though, it's late, and I'm an hour away from the city. It's time to sleep, and better yet, time to dream.