If you’ve been there, you’ll know how the fog hangs sullenly over the hills above Sausalito, clinging to the atmosphere and rendering the whole of existence a dull gray until the sun and rain show a rainbow.
Every little while, this same fog will slide down the yacht masts, creeping along Main Street, seeping into doorways of coffee shops, fashion boutiques, all looked upon from hotel retreats.
I flew from the Midwest into San Francisco, coming from the darkness into the California light. There’s not a prettier place to stay, no need to rush, I’ll just stay here the night.
Across the Bay, San Francisco, straight streets going up the hill, San Quentin for the tourists, cell walls written on by some of America’s most renowned non-conformists.