Sorry posting has been so light. We got back from a long weekend in San Francisco yesterday. Could that damn city have been any more glorious this weekend? No, I don't think so. Balmy evenings when just a long-sleeved t-shirt or light jacket is all you need; beautiful days when every building seems to glow under a perfect, golden light. Everyone was sick of me by Monday morning. Even on a walk through Alamo Square on our way to dinner, when the icy fog started to roll in, I was waxing lyrical about how fresh and wonderful that cold, damp air felt. We didn't get to see everybody, but spent a lot of time with the family, including a long-anticipated visit to the new downtown shopping mecca, which boasts a sparkly, shiny Bloomingdale's (San Francisco's first), as well as a Bristol Farms (another first). My niece took me to Ruehl, designed to resemble a NYC brownstone from the outside, and a dark, multi-roomed dance club on the inside. Then there was Hollister. Same thing, just more California than New York. Lots of surfing paraphernalia, and a big screen with live footage of the waves at Huntington Beach. I was the old lady searching for some light to read the price tags, or find my size in the odd hoodie or t-shirt I thought I might be able to get away with, in spite of my being far beyond the demographic catered to within.
And then it was time to go back South. It wasn't easy driving in from Burbank airport. The rusty downtown L.A. skyline loomed ahead, and I felt nothing but gloom. But strangely enough, turning into our pretty tree-lined street, looking up into the remarkably unhazy hills, I felt very much at home. Not to mention the satisfaction of using our leaf blower to clean up the patio, and watering the parched plants. The San Francisco soul in me wouldn't know what to do with a patio, let alone a leaf-blower.