I take the ferry to the city and find the perfect spot outside. The water splashes and spits, but I stay dry. We pass two prisons, one in use and one not. Sometimes there are prisoners out in the yard, waving at the commuters on the water. Today the yard is empty. 

Once on land, I find some sustenance then make my way to the street. I juggle an empanada and a camera, fulfilling my hunger for both lunch and art making. Once in front of the Ferry Building, I see a street preacher. His voice is sing song and his dress is dapper. I start to listen, then not. 

The area around the Muni tracks is a mash up of encampments, skaters, bicycle messengers and tourists. I suppose I most qualify as a tourist, although I have passed through hundreds of times on bicycle and on foot. I come to look, to be present but unobtrusive. 

I make my way through the financial district, past my old office. Many businesses are empty now, void of the usual hustle and bustle of a vibrant city. The vibrancy has returned up the hill in Chinatown. The park is more full of people playing games and enjoying each others company. I am drawn to a woman who is surrounded by pigeons. She shares her food with them and they seem at peace in her presence. 

The fruit and vegetable shops are thriving, at least compared to when I was last here. I walk around a bit and then stop to get a vibrant colored, taro slush. It hits the spot. I walk into North Beach and stand in the park's well watered grass, drinking my periwinkle colored beverage. A dog in a canine sized hoodie, runs around chasing a ball. 

I decide to ignore good sense, and I venture down to Fisherman's Wharf. Many of the restaurants that cater to tourists are empty and boarded up. The street is lacking of performers and the energy is stilted. Every street vendor seems to be selling the same uninspired plastic souvenirs. Every now and then a person dances, or carries sugary things on a stick. 

When it is time to return to the ferry, I choose to walk in the bike lane to avoid the other humans. In pre-pandemic times this would not be possible. I would have gotten clobbered by a sea of bicycles. Today only two electric scooters need the lane. 

Back on the ferry, I find my spot outside again, but eventually decide to stand. I ride the ebb and flow of the waves, maintaining my stance but leaning into whatever direction the boat decides to rock.  

Where I live, it is summer. In San Francisco proper, the fog calls the seasons into question. The beach is blustery and cold. My hair whips around in a way I am not used to. Since the pandemic, I have yet to get it cut. It blows in my eyes and into my mouth. The dry grasses dance around, mocking me, but I don't mind.

A young cormorant is taunted by a dog. It seems the bird cannot yet fly or is injured. Youth seems more likely, as the escape is a bit clumsy and awkward. I lean in to see if the bird is ok but refrain from getting too close. I don't want to cause the bird more anguish. 

I venture out from the beach to find a place with less wind. I park and walk around an area of the city I had never explored. I step onto an empty college campus. It is well landscaped, and there are amazing views from here. Palm trees wave and sway. I wave back.

A man in a dark suit wears a covering over his head and face. I am self conscious about being maskless. I am still not used to walking with a bare face. At first, I think this man is campus security, glaring at me, wondering my intent. Later, I see him strolling with a paper sack. He is just a regular guy getting lunch. 

It is an odd day, where the sky is hiding its blue. I get a bit lost before returning to the car. I enjoy wandering without paying attention to any specific direction. Driving back over the bridge, the temperature rises, the sky clears, and the sun shines bright. I appreciate the foggy days no less; they are just a different mood, an alternate (but temporary) state of being.

Out in the avenues, the ocean calls, again and again. I return to revel in the sand and sunshine. Some days, this is everything and enough. 

On the morning of what will be a really hot day, I venture to where the surfers catch early waves. As I walk the beach, I notice a bulbous form in the sand. At first, I perceive this to be a large piece of driftwood free of bark. As I get closer, I sadly see that it is a deceased whale. It is raw, damaged and in a state of decay. The smell is unpleasant. I don't look away. Instead, I document the animal and wonder what brought it to its demise. Several whales have washed up in the Bay Area recently, many of them wounded by ship strike. (My photos of the whale will not appear here, out of respect for the once beautiful, grand creature.)

Further down the beach, the tide is low enough to walk all the way to where the sand ends. Mussels and sea anemones cover the rock formations here. Waves crash and fall. Hermit crabs scurry to hide. My sneakered feet get wet, and I wonder why I have forgotten that it is sandal season. If it weren't for my camera, I'd probably just step deeper into the water, to get a closer look at the ocean critters. 

Up on the hill above the beach, I wander through the fort looking for spots to aim my camera. I watch the cliff swallows fly in and out of their mud nests. I listen to a vibrant red finch singing sweetly while sitting on the wires. An official looking white vehicle pulls up beside me and I say hello. A uniformed gentleman asks if he can help me in some way. I say "no" and smile. He asks what I am doing, and I say, "I am taking photos". He asks, "of what?" I pause and look around. I point to some discarded objects lost in the weeds and say, "artsy stuff like this". It sounds silly coming out of my mouth, but all other answers seem suspect. If I am a criminal, I am plotting my future shady escapades. If I am a self proclaimed artist for profit, I need to pay to be permitted to be here. My solution is to look happily naive with a new hobby. It works, and he drives off, choosing to ditch any further inquiry into my activities.  

I arrive at the park near the Lawn Bowling Club. It is often occupied by the elder set, dressed in crisp white attire, a uniform of sorts. Usually, stark white stands in sharp contrast to the vibrant green grass. Today, it is clear the formality of tradition has been lost to the pandemic. Everything is more casual now, because we no longer have time for posturing. 

The man who waters the grass for the bowlers, notices me reading a sign. It has an image of a crow and says, "Don't worry. I'm not real". He explains to me that he has to use a decoy to scare away critters. In order for it to work, he must put the decoy on its back. This results in the park getting many phone calls about a dead or injured bird. Now there is a sign for the humans, but the other animals still fall for the ruse. 

Around the bend, I enter the Aids Memorial Grove. It is absolutely stunning, a tribute to those who left us too soon. The plants are lush and green, even more so than many other areas of the park. The strength of spirit of those that are honored here is palpable. The care with which it was designed, and nurtured is immense. This is a sacred place. Hearts are mended here. 

I go to see the dahlias, but it may be too soon. They are few and far between, and half of them are missing. Maybe it is early or maybe their tending was lost to quarantining gardeners. I admire a few lonely blooms. Behind me, a man in business attire sits on a bench, listening to heavy metal music that is trapped inside his backpack.  

At the Conservatory of Flowers, a man wearing red, white and blue pants, and an absurdly quaffed head of hair, aggressively throws rocks. He intends to break the glass, but the glass is now wood. In his frustration, he bends and weaves wildly and grabs more rocks. I want to intervene, but I don't. He talks to the wind and traipses on. 

From the nearby tunnel comes the sound of live music. I follow it and see a group of men playing. The tunnel amplifies the sound, and I stand in the middle listening. The walls are covered with various messages of past and present. I place money in the hat and hope to hear more, but the men soon pause to put away their instruments. 

Golden Gate Park is the garden, playground, gym and sanctuary of so many locals and tourists alike. It will always be a place of refuge for me. It is not as if I don't see its troubled bits; it is just that the shiny bits shine brighter for me.  

Over in the east bay, I weave my way into and out of shops, slowly bringing back some of the daily life from before. It is not so much about the purchase of things, but more about human interaction and the freedom of happenstance. Everyone appears to be walking around filled with a bit of weariness, but with an equal sense of renewed hope. After a spirited conversation with an eager fat cat and a peanut eating crow, I enter an antique store to buy vintage photos from a shop keeper with a French accent. I pretend I am on a trip that couldn't be taken. 

Underneath the Bart tracks, I see tiny lines flitting about in the breeze. As the wind blows, the lines bend and dance, appearing almost metallic. I crane my neck to watch, and it is beautiful. These pine needles, caught in a metal grate, have created an effortless work of art. 

At the end of a busy street, a repurposed bank contains a night deposit box. I imagine it being the place where daydreams safely go to sleep. At the rising of the sun, a key is turned and the daydreams are released, only to be captured again by wanderers like me. 

Slowly of the world again, I venture into San Francisco's Chinatown and North Beach. The air is misty from fog and has that chill that happens when June is soon to arrive. There is a lightness in my step that has been lacking these past many months. I let strangers get closer, and I say a hearty hello to many. 

Many Chinatown businesses are still closed but the groceries and fish markets are a flurry of activity. This is really good to see. I meander down to a parallel street with the tourist shops, and more doors are shut. I watch as a shopkeeper removes the wood from his long shuttered shop, ready to be open once more. A smattering of wide eyed sightseers flit about seeking direction. 

Venturing up the stairs into the park, hearing a nearby boisterous cough sends me back to the sidewalk. Taking the next available stairwell, I expect to see the type of activity I always see here, but it is quiet. One group of men play cards, and there are scattered individuals resting on benches. It is missing the music, the laughter, performance, food, exercising elders, wandering visitors and general bustle of the days before. A bench sitter, bedraggled and toothless, calls out for my attention. He is cheerful and wants me to turn around. I don't mind his eagerness and give him a friendly nod. 

The bookstore that is a landmark of North Beach is not yet open, so I peer longingly through the window. Whenever I stand there, I think of the time a friend from New York asked me to hide his poem somewhere inside. I put it in the wall near where poems are read, to be found by someone, sometime, eventually. Its words were written, read and will wait, like most art, to be (re)discovered and celebrated. 

Returning to my two hour parking spot, I remove my mask and look in the mirror. The mascara I put on earlier, to look more alive, is now smudged well below my eyes. I look ridiculous and drive home laughing while looking like a sad clown. 

The fog tries to mask the blue sky, but the sky shines through. I'm dressed for summer, but summer in San Francisco is like early spring elsewhere. And, it is not summer yet. I decide to enjoy the crisp air rather than be cold. 

I tell myself that I am so grateful to be here. Of all the places I could be, this is where I chose; this place makes me glad. Although I rest my head a bit north of here, this city has drawn me in for a very long time. The hardships it brings are rewarded in the diversity of the landscape, the wildlife as well as the people. 

The pandemic has weighed on me. Like many, my time has been my own - and yet not. I am less than a week away from being fully vaccinated and past the wait time. I look forward to having a semblance of a normal life after being the utmost of careful. Although I greatly value the time I have spent taking these photos, I miss people and real interactions. My outings have been like an extended game of dodgeball, quick weaving and wandering. 

My primary form of expression the past several years has been painting. If anything, this past year, I have gained a renewed love of photography. My walks with my camera allow me to enjoy my external world rather than retreating into the internal. My eyes are constantly searching, my mind cataloging my surroundings. A narrative unfolds but it has its own buoyancy, follows its own direction in spite of any baggage I might bring. It is freeing, always rewarding and keeps me completely present.  

Barriers surround a sinkhole in the middle of the street. Workers scurry about, taking care that it gets resolved. I inquire if this has occurred naturally, and am told yes. I stare at it wondering if the world might be turning inside out. Is this the portal to an alternate universe? I am tempted, but decide not to try to find out. 

Green Xs mark the sidewalk for a good block. I (wrongly) assume, green marks are intended to indicate location of communication lines. Is this where we will receive messages from the alternate universe below the sinkhole? A dump truck pleads with me to be quiet, as if I was telling secrets I promised not to tell. In my imaginary conversation with an inanimate object, I say, "Relax man, I was just adding some apocalypse to my pandemic pretending." 

Bees swarm, forming a large mass between two trees, bringing me back to reality. I get as close as I can without getting stung. This is fascinating and a bit dangerous, but they seem more interested in swarming than the human passerby. 

I stroll along the hilltops in a neighborhood I have never explored before. It is peaceful with distant sounds of urban activity below. From this perspective, the city seems new again. Sutro Tower stands tall in the distance. As the fog envelopes it, it becomes a ship, floating into the vastness of the blue beyond. 

The ocean constantly calls for my attention, and I try to answer with great respect. One would think I'd constantly find myself swimming, but often I stand on the edge, barely touching the water. In tropical climates, where the water is warm, I find myself swimming for hours upon hours, conversing with the fish. Here in the Bay Area, the water is frigid for a cold wimp. The pandemic has had me asking - Why don't I own a wetsuit? Why don't I know anyone with a boat? Why don't I own a boat, even if it is an inflatable dinghy? Why am I not a surfer or paddle boarder (beyond the annoyance of my crap knee)? These are repeated questions that need resolve. 

A young man approaches the water and disrobes down to a pair of shorts. He runs briskly into the ocean and back out again. Is this a test of will? A dare? An attempt to awake out of an endless stupor? If I went in that far, I would swim out past the waves, float on my back, feeling the water rise and fall. Surely I would get carried away with the wind, but that is not part of my current daydream. 

Two men are fishing and are the only others at the beach. They whirl around with their poles, trading places now and again. Seagulls look for bait to snack on while the men tug at the lines. I kick rocks and take pictures. 

I wander and wait for I know not what. My hair blows in my eyes and into my mouth. I am not used to the unwieldy nature of these unattended tendrils. My worries waiver and whip away with the wind. I wander back up the hill dancing, quietly collecting these scattershot halcyon days.