Heat Wave Burnin' In My Heart

Well hello there stranger! I have returned to my City by the Bay, and one upped my previous rose colored lenses with clear shades. And damn, it feels good to be back. I swear, Judy Garland is singing in my ear right this moment:

San Francisco, open your Golden Gate

You'll let nobody wait outside your door

San Francisco, here is your wanderin' one

Saying I'll wander no more!

A couple of weeks ago San Francisco experienced record heat. Dripping sweat, sweltering, sun soaked, steaming pavement heat. In fact, the city had not experienced such a high temperature, 93°, since 84° in 1987, at which time I was 3 1/2, and most likely decked out in a neon and watching Thundercats. Needless to say I am ill-equipped for such weather, but love it nonetheless, for several reasons.

Reason Number One: The View.

The women of San Francisco are beautiful. Granted, they don't have the same reputation as toned and tan ladies of Miami, perfectly polished Los Angeleans, or chic and diverse New Yorkers--and this is starting to sound like a Beach Boys song--but San Francisco women are, uniquely and effortlessly, beautiful. It was hard not to admire the sparkling ladies, and as hot air rushed past me, it seemed as though life was moving in a glorious slow motion. Women walked down the street, hair shining and swaying, legs exposed in stylish summer skirts--that had before been hanging uselessly in closets--gracefully navigating wide, smooth, city streets.

Reason Number Two: The Water.

To celebrate the homecoming of the prodigal friend Cecilia and Ruth met me in the Castro at Catch for mango martinis and oysters. They filled me in on missed drama (post-brawl at the Lex the Blondes are no longer welcome, however my bar stool is still mine. Phew!) and I filled them in on Paris (never go to Unity Bar, absolutely go to George V). They admired my new Gaultier babydoll dress and I admitted to my insane splurges, which included a YSL tuxedo jacket and Chanel cuff. We laughed our faces off and got slightly sappy during the reunion, and finally it was time for some trouble. I left Pinky parked in the Castro and we swerved our way onto Muni. It was twilight: the sky was clear blue velvet, and sweat slid easily down the curve of my spine.

We arrived at Yerba Buena Gardens drunk and happy, running excited as little girls to the fountain, ignoring confused tourists and relaxed locals. Flinging our precious shoes into a careless pile, we grabbed hands and plunged into the water, knee deep in the happy current, howling at the coolness and giggling at one another. It felt absolutely luxurious. Ruth splashed her arm through a sheet of water running down beside her and the droplets hit me and Cecilia. This set us off, of course, into an all out water battle, until each one of us was a drenched mess. We sloshed our way to the side and sat, tears streaming down our faces, unable to contain ourselves over the wonderful hilarity of it all. I felt fantastically happy and complete in that moment.

Instead of riding PT in such a state we decided to stroll back to the Mission, clean up at our respective apartments, and reconvene for more drinks (and ridiculousness) on the patio at El Rio. We split off, and I made my way up Valencia, still wet as a dog, making squishing noises in my gladiator sandals.


I was looking down at said sandals, silently willing my feet to stop it when OOMPH I ran straight into a woman coming around the corner.


Reason Number Three: The Women.

It was Fiona. The woman that got hit by a car. The woman whose cell phone had been sitting in my apartment for a couple of months. The woman who was clearly hurt, but smiled at me. The incredibly beautiful Fiona.

And here I was. Soaking wet.

San Francisco, I'm coming home again,
Never to roam again, by gum San Francisco,
I don't mean Frisco
San Francisco, here I come!

Always,

Louise