Miniskirts, tank tops, shorts, sandals, guys drinking beer at the corner, music loud in the clubs...there aren't many cities like San Francisco on a hot Friday night. And when I say hot, I mean it. My car, which claims to measure the outside temperature, told me it was 83 degrees late this afternoon.
It was a relief that my daughter's soccer practice at Glen Park could be held in the shade. We never say things like that here!
Out myself tonight, in the Haight, for the first night in memory I didn't bother taking a jacket. A T-shirt sufficed. Back home, after 10, I have the ceiling fan activated for the first time this year and windows open. The back door is open.
Yet, the inside temperature is still in the 70s.
It's a different place when it's hot. Almost like we can all finally be who we really want to be, instead of bundling up against an unnaturally cold night wind and mysterious fog, urging us to be not who we want to be.
Maybe that's what so strange about this tribe, the San Franciscans. Our odd weather?
(Nice try.)
=30-
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