SO we went to San Francisco.

I'd been there a coupla times before, with Doc Nagel, and always had a reasonably good time, sometimes a sublime and wonderful time, more often the latter than the former. I have even built up a bad food karma, at Chef Gia's, Chris' favorite joint in Chinatown. (The first time I ate there it was perfect, the next three or four times what came out of the kitchen wasn't what I imagined and someone else had something that smelled better than what I was eating at another table.) Which is not really significant, but speaks to how much experience I have with the burg. But still, there has always been something about Frisco that I just didn't get. Like all major burgs, there is a sort of common denominator amongst the people, a shared attitude that tells you where you are. New York has that kind of sunny arrogance. Toronto has it's grim cheeriness. DC has it's insider's smugness. (Even here, in Charlotte, there's kind of a self-aware obliviuosness. Maybe I should try and tap that one out some time.) And I kind of let that bother me, for no relatively good reason other than that's the kind of self-absorbing crap that gets me to write poems. So that's either a good thing or a bad thing, depending on your point of view.

Anyways, this last time Rachelle went with, and instead of spending the whole time in California with Chris, which simply wasn't feasible from a scheduling point of view, we spent a couple of days in Frisco at the beginning and at the end of the trip. Rachelle booked a couple of tours that sounded interesting, and they were: a three-hour bus tour of the city, which was suprisingly nifty, a van tour of Muir Woods and the wine country of the adjacent Sonoma Valley. She also got directions for a walking tour through Chinatown and North Beach, which was kind of interesting in that it dragged us by some things that otherwise we would never have known were there. One morning, kicking around waiting for time for something or other, I bought a souvenier pen and a couple of over-sized post cards. I tapped out the most of the first stanza then and there.

The rest of it I wrote after we got back here. Truth be told, there really wasn't any time for writing while we were out there. And that's really where it is with Frisco. So many things seem like half measures because there's so much to do. Besides, all the bother of getting around on those damned hills can't help but distract you from what you meant to do. It's kind of that stereotypical Californian thing: they mean well, but, for whatever reason, they can't be bothered.

I mean that in a nice, nice way. Really, I do.