Late May and I've got a boy's car.
I have the use of a car, somewhat unexpectedly, this week.
My (boy)friend is out of town this week, and he wanted me to drop him off at the airport this morning before he left. I was game, seeing as I rarely have the opportunity to drive, and, as he shut the door and left me with the keys, it struck me that I could go absolutely anywhere...right?
It was one of those days that really should have been beautiful (it's May 23rd, for crying out loud), but instead was cold and overcast. In San Francisco these days are quite common in the late spring and early summer -- almost like God sneezed while mapping out the weather for the day. Memorial Day weekend is really intended to be the beginning of summer, in my book, and here we are, one week from my quarter-century birthday and the air is thick and full like rain snot.
So I drove home. Back to my parent's house, where the air was warm and full, and the trees leafy and shiny. Traffic was a bit heavy going through the bay, but I remembered after I'd left that it was a holiday weekend, and I didn't really mind so much once I turned up the music all the way and lowered the windows. I felt sixteen years old again, the good sixteen, when a driver's license is like plastic confidence and the road is so clearly symbolic of everywhere you can finally go - alone.
It is my favorite time of year. It is a good year, an Obama year. I am quitting my job this summer, which is frightening, but good, because I am starting an M.F.A. program at SF State this fall. I was really hoping to go to Davis, and was waitlisted for their fiction program, but they only accept 12, and I guess it was a sign that San Francisco is a Julia place. A bizarre, diverse place, a place where you can buy huaraches and sushi and penis cakes and really nice bicycles, where there are about nineteen different film festivals, a fantastic Pride Parade, an amazing 7.4 mile race that you can run in costume, or in the nude.
After I got home this afternoon, my mom accompanied me on a Rollerblade jaunt way out into the country. It was in that quiet part of the afternoon in late May when the heat is just enough to tan, but not enough to dehydrate. There weren't even any spiderwebs hanging off the wire fences.
I can hear the grasshoppers outside now. Maybe they are cicadas? I always got the two mixed up. What I hear is that soft chirp, almost a jingly hum, the kind that comes in rhythmic spurts as soon as the sun goes down. That, and the sound of rain hitting the storm drains, are my favorite outdoor night sounds.
I love San Francisco, but I much prefer the evening cool of Northern California nights.
My (boy)friend is out of town this week, and he wanted me to drop him off at the airport this morning before he left. I was game, seeing as I rarely have the opportunity to drive, and, as he shut the door and left me with the keys, it struck me that I could go absolutely anywhere...right?
It was one of those days that really should have been beautiful (it's May 23rd, for crying out loud), but instead was cold and overcast. In San Francisco these days are quite common in the late spring and early summer -- almost like God sneezed while mapping out the weather for the day. Memorial Day weekend is really intended to be the beginning of summer, in my book, and here we are, one week from my quarter-century birthday and the air is thick and full like rain snot.
So I drove home. Back to my parent's house, where the air was warm and full, and the trees leafy and shiny. Traffic was a bit heavy going through the bay, but I remembered after I'd left that it was a holiday weekend, and I didn't really mind so much once I turned up the music all the way and lowered the windows. I felt sixteen years old again, the good sixteen, when a driver's license is like plastic confidence and the road is so clearly symbolic of everywhere you can finally go - alone.
It is my favorite time of year. It is a good year, an Obama year. I am quitting my job this summer, which is frightening, but good, because I am starting an M.F.A. program at SF State this fall. I was really hoping to go to Davis, and was waitlisted for their fiction program, but they only accept 12, and I guess it was a sign that San Francisco is a Julia place. A bizarre, diverse place, a place where you can buy huaraches and sushi and penis cakes and really nice bicycles, where there are about nineteen different film festivals, a fantastic Pride Parade, an amazing 7.4 mile race that you can run in costume, or in the nude.
After I got home this afternoon, my mom accompanied me on a Rollerblade jaunt way out into the country. It was in that quiet part of the afternoon in late May when the heat is just enough to tan, but not enough to dehydrate. There weren't even any spiderwebs hanging off the wire fences.
I can hear the grasshoppers outside now. Maybe they are cicadas? I always got the two mixed up. What I hear is that soft chirp, almost a jingly hum, the kind that comes in rhythmic spurts as soon as the sun goes down. That, and the sound of rain hitting the storm drains, are my favorite outdoor night sounds.
I love San Francisco, but I much prefer the evening cool of Northern California nights.