14 November 2001
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When you stand on top of Twin Peaks, San Francisco is laid out in front of you like a postcard. The Bay hugs the coastline and wraps itself around the city. Market Street cuts through downtown, the buildings shooting up around it. The massive glowing Golden Gate Bridge hovers among the clouds, off to your left, keeping watch over the flow of the Pacific. Like a memory, Alcatraz floats in the distance. We stood up on that hill, the wind whipping its chill through us and took pictures of the scene and of each other, wrapping our arms tightly across our chests, trying to stay warm. Buses pulled up and dropped off tourists, all of them chattering in different languages. The fog rolled in and brought the rain with it. It rained all weekend, except for those few clear hours on Sunday morning when we saw the view and took photos. We also used the clear morning to walk the bridge. We went out onto the Golden Gate, past the temporary fencing that we knew was there in case of attack, past the phone you can pick up if you need counseling. The Please Don't Jump Phone, whose existence weirds me out. The water is fast below the bridge, all of the ocean trying to squeeze itself into the bay, and it's a long way down. The bridge is so massive you can't imagine anything being able to damage it, but when I first spotted a Highway Patrol Cessna circling above the bridge, I let a little fear creep in. On Friday night, we had amazing sushi down in the Marina, at this perfectly little California spot called Ace Wasabi. It was hip and full of atmosphere without any of the unwarranted pretentiousness of Los Angeles or the desperation of Columbus. We sat in the back, four of us, and ordered rolls and Sapporo, toasting every chance we got. I felt my face flush with the beer, sushi and new friendship and spilled secrets readily. It rained and rained, and I wore my suede boots in protest. We spent most of Sunday in wine country, touring and tasting. We took photos in front of vineyards and let the reserve Cabernet warm us through. The drive back to the city was sleepy, so I felt no fear as we crossed the Bay Bridge, when I was only able to see twinkling lights in a bay of blackness. I didn't see much while I was there, barely anything, really. I didn't get to ride a streetcar, or cable car or trolley, or whatever they're called to you, or take a drive down Lombard, the curviest street in the world. I didn't take a picture of myself on the corner of Haight and Ashbury, not in front of the Gap nor the Ben and Jerry's. I was only in Northern California for about a day and half, but it was enough; enough to convince me that it's a place I'd like to be. Even though it seemed as if we came and left, it only took those few hours for me to fall in love. It's easy to leave your heart in San Francisco. We drove back to L.A. on Monday, the rain covering the entire state of California, our rented convertible mocking us. I changed my flight, unable to bear the thought of flying on a Monday when I'd awoken to the news of another crash in New York City. Tuesday morning, sitting on the plane, I looked out the window at the ocean as we circled to fly East. The vastness of it made me feel lost, sitting in that little silver tube. I shut the shade, unable to watch as we climbed higher and higher, preferring ignorance to terror. I wrote and wrote about my weekend, often interjecting with little parenthetical freakouts, like, what was that noise? and why does it feel like we're slowing down?! I felt like I'd gotten over my fear with the flight out there; I only needed one under my belt to get me back into the traveling mindset. But then the Queens crash happened and my anxiety flooded back. But we landed safely and I almost ran right into Danny Glover as I was deplaning and he was coming out of the First Class lavatory. Why is it that I had to come all the way back to Ohio to see a celebrity? And have it be Danny Glover? The notify wants to congratulate miranda on her best guest entry diarist.net nomination.
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