The air was clean enough to go to the beach this morning. This is our constant cycle these days. Check the air quality, measure the covid risk, and decide the heatwave tolerance level. It is the 2020 disaster dance of west coast sanity seekers. We are mostly here for the environment after all. It is so strange to interact with it in this odd and dysfunctional way. Nevertheless, at the beach, contentment is found.  

The waves are raucous and surfers find solace in flowing with the push pull of the water. Salt drenches sun soaked skin of those who see the ocean as their second home, or maybe even their first. I grew up in the south near a river where, at the time, people dumped old refrigerators and used car parts. Sure, it was also pretty in certain areas, but it wasn't much more than a glorified creek. So, to me, the ocean has always seemed so grand. I realize I repeat this sentiment over and over again, but some things are well worth repeating.  

I kick the walk button at the corner and wait to cross. Everything is set up for hand control, but I have started to think we should set more things up for feet. When the light changes, I venture into the street a little distance from the actual crosswalk. Fellow humans are walking from the other side and I am just playing it safe. A man turning right at the light has to wait for me to reach the other side before he can press on the gas. He leans toward an open passenger side window and hollers at me. I can't quite decipher what he says. "You know that mask isn't helping. Why don't you go to hell? Why don't you go help them? Hey, nice skull mask."

He maybe said one of these things or none of them. I rearrange the sounds in my mind to make some sense of what words went with his urgent expression. I have no idea and am not interested in asking him. I frustrate myself by wasting anytime trying to figure it out. I walk on, returning to my daydreams. Then his 1980s machismo car drives by, and I hear him shout out the window again. I am walking the opposite direction of his previous turn, so he had to have changed course to get his mumbling point across to me. Too bad for him, his words are lost on me again, and I am almost home. 

I see Frida Kahlo in a window and imagine us as friends. I wonder if she can see my subtle limp, as hers is not so subtle. Together, we paint the day.

The blue sky has returned from the orange haze that blocked the sun for days. The air is no longer thick with ash, and hearts are no longer quite so heavy. I walk on a street that has been blocked to allow for car free pedals and strolls. I am happy to be among humans again. Isolation can stifle ones soul and creativity. Being able to move around with other people, even at a distance, even without interacting beyond a hello, is a gift. 

I park near my favorite restaurant which has the best bread and butter I have ever had. If it was the last thing I ever ate, I would be fine with that. A few doors down is one of my favorite coffee shops. The owner is an artist with a way with words and coffee beans. Beyond that is an art supply store with beautiful paints and a desirable collection of paper and pencils. This is not why I am here, and I am still not venturing into my old haunts, open or not.   

The ocean calls to me the way it always does, but I challenge myself to walk the other direction. It is unusually warm for San Francisco, but summer here generally does not start until fall. I've lost track of time. I click and step, click and step, never letting go of my camera. I walk up 27 long blocks, avenue to avenue. I walk back on a parallel street, 27 blocks in reverse. My pace is slow and contemplative. I try to take notice of everything. 

Time is mysterious and safety from disaster is no longer a given, if it ever was. This day is a reminder to never take the blue sky for granted. Never dismiss the ease of breathing. I try to smile to others under my mask, as I know we have all been in a collective state of panic. Realizing they cannot read the smile from my eyes alone, I wave an awkward wave, and continue clicking. 

A bottle of used hot sauce is weary, worried it is responsible for the larger heat and fire.
Tea cups are arranged for a party, but pebbles promise to get stuck in eager teeth.
A blue bump tries to remove itself, leaving a gaping wound.
A fence bulges and bends, containing the invisible. 
A child's hand reports the air quality to those looking for clean inhalation.
Wayward white paper has been crying, its message lost.
A tree strapped tries not to waver from the growth it has before it.
Caution cones are weary as their job is never ending. 
A tiny stage begs for its performer and audience on an empty lawn.
Jagged and scraped, orange and white attempt to emphasize yellow.
A strange man makes a moldy announcement, mouth agape. 
Behind the fence, this is where the fire sits.   

The containment of the fires grows and the smoke has more breaks between. However, we are now in a heat wave and PGE threatens more power outages due to expected high winds next week. 2020 is relentless and California is in a state of fatigue. An early morning walk offers a bit of respite. 

I look at a familiar apartment building in the neighborhood, called Capri. We went to the island of Capri once and rode the chairlift for the best views. I dangled my feet, kicking them back and forth the way a child might. I love ferris wheels, chair lifts and swing rides. I rode on a swing ride in Vienna once that was said to be the highest chained carousel in the whole world at 383 ft tall. No one I was with would go with me. It felt rickety and dangerous but I was determined. It was also night and the city was lit up. I could see the stars. As the swing dipped and turned, my teeth dried out from smiling. My hands cramped from holding rusty chains. It was the best sensation, and while it lasted, I was on top of the world. 

I walk on and see a street sign that reads, "Florence". I have never been there but am happy to continue with the Italian theme this block provides. I imagine myself eating good cheese and bread and drinking red wine at a local cafe. Surely art viewing will be part of the day and hopefully a local flea market. This is my imaginary vacation prompted by a couple visual clues in California. On a good day, I am very happy to be here. When the Golden State suffers and wails, I escape into my mind where all things are possible. 

As the smoke clears for the morning, I head into San Francisco. I park on the end of California and venture up a hill that takes me to a golf course. In non-covid19 times I might have wandered deep in to explore what I could find on the carefully maintained grounds. Now, I follow the rules for reasons of safety and social distancing. The designated walking path takes me to the other side of the golf course where the land meets the water. The view is amazing and the depth of feeling it evokes could never be captured in pictures. Vividness of color (or lack of), beauty of composition, and luck of timing can never come close to expressing what happens in my gut when something touches me deeply. It can, however, be a reaction or retelling of what is seen, a new story that exists on a different plane of reality. 

Down the road are homes of great wealth. This is a unique world which is somewhat foreign to me. It is beautifully manicured, full of caretakers and builders. The facade needs constant maintenance. Walking through is free. I wonder who lives here and what their lives are like. A quick search reveals a few well known celebrities. I doubt I'll ever be their neighbor but no harm in pretending. And yes, this is a frivolous, empty kind of joy, but it is entertaining. 

Further in, I spot a sign that says "public beach". Of course, I have to follow it, and I land at China Beach. There is a road down which is wide enough for social distancing. There, I find a lone fisherman, a swimmer who obviously does not mind the cold water, and two young men enjoying the view from above. Beyond that, it is me and the birds. I feel gleeful, because in all my years living in the Bay Area, I had never been here. I had seen it from above, but just assumed it was inaccessible.

The Golden Gate Bridge stands tall in the distance, an icon of this joining of land and sea. Seagulls rest in the sand, only slightly hindered by my human presence. I hop over the water that reaches the rocks to see the other side of the cove. I am filled with delight and know this is exactly where I need to be at this second, on this day, in this very strange and difficult year.