26 – Pastels

June 1993 – North Beach

I’m outside sipping SF’s best mocha at Puccini’s where opera swoons from the jukebox. The sunshine is painting pastel summer stripes behind the silhouetting chapels. The Italian restaurants’ neon signs are illuminating. 

A woman backs her ‘76 Corolla into a sidewalk chair seated by an ancient native of Little Italy as she departs. Coffee buddies applaud the next parker due to their collision-free maneuvering.

At the corner bank on Columbus, a couple women basking in attention are swaying to the rhythm of soul singers who make the sidewalks their bed. 

I’m wearing my No. Beach writing cap (Vive la révolution!) and I’m enthralled with the vivre – the same enthusiasm I had at the height of my enamor for this town. Beauty and vibrance. Vitality. Color. Creativity.

Looks wimpy ordering decaf from Cafe Trieste, but I’m still buzzing from my first few bevs at Puccini. God it’s beautiful out. Allowing more sidewalk seating is about the most cherished legislation the city council ever enacted. 

It’s light-sweatshirt weather now after 9 p.m. with the glow of daylight skulking in the sidelines. How sweet it is. The days endure.

Art and theater discussion bound and rebound in accents – urban and transcontinental. I’m inspired by the indie filmmakers who maintain control, like Hartley and Sayles and Campion. 

The tourist (polo shirt and shorts) offers a hand to a Chinese man unloading a refrigerator from his pick-up truck. The gift of community. Universalism. I love this town. It happens here. Time to wander. Breathe.