My mother and her husband John came out to visit a week or so ago. Since they left, California has blended into a gray smear of endless blue skies and constant blooming of flowers with occasional bursts of color when I hang out with Don and Mary Ann, but while they were here, we had an absolute blast. My mother got to play in the ocean surf during the very tail of a Pacific sunset.
We went to the various gardens in Golden Gate Park. I wished as hard as I could for things to be in bloom, and it seemed to work, since there were flowers everywhere. My mother walked sideways and backwards through the botanical garden, peering and poking at every inch of greenery. This one grew indoors in Minnesota, this one grew outside, but no where near as big, and wouldn’t show its face for months, this one was just like the one in the pond at home. Every crablike step she made, every hunch of her back, and every wave of her stumpy finger were steps in a ballet. Adagio: pas de valse, plié, degagé, coupé, demi pointe, en relevé, cou-de-pied…
We also visited the Golden Gate Bridge. There were more plants on the way up, which offset the tunnel that smelled of hobo urine and the general feces smell from me shitting my pants on the bridge itself*. I believe that I have mentioned my fear of heights, and now I am owed pants.
One thing I have noticed about the Bay Area is that people love to bitch about tourists, but at the same time, love to show off how fucking amazing it is here. We visited the top of Twin Peaks, and Alameda, and Fort Point, and ate dinner watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean and it’s associated Ocean Beach. I’ll let my mom’s photos tell the rest, since she did a good job.
* I didn’t actually crap my pants, but it wouldn’t have surprised me.