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. 

For a change of scenery, I decided to take the car (and one of my damaged cameras) to a couple mid-century modern Eichler housing developments. I parked and walked, checking out the iconic homes, some of which still respect the original architectural design. In my research to locate these homes, I learned that Joseph Eichler was in fact not an architect but a real estate developer. He hired young architects to design homes inspired by his love of Frank Lloyd Wright. The wonderful thing about these neighborhoods was Eichler was a strong proponent of fair housing and seriously opposed to racial discrimination. He sold to people of color at a time when many other developers were discriminatory. 

From an aesthetic standpoint, what I liked most (but couldn't fully see) was that every home seemed to have an internal garden area right past the front door. The living area of the house wraps around this. The outdoors becomes indoors and vice versa. It appeared as though some folks had unique tropical plants growing there. Others used this space to store surfboards and bicycles. If a door was open, I could see that some treated their homes like a 1950s or 60s catalog showroom and others paid no heed to any particular aesthetic.  

My artist brain had trouble with all the ugly cars parked in front of some of the more attractive homes. I scoffed at a few grannyish doors that looked recently purchased at local big box stores. Some gardens were beautiful and wonderfully curated, and others were a mess of weeds and dry brush. Some paint jobs used well thought out color schemes, while others made me want to grab my brushes. I am not an architect, a landscape designer, house painter or car aficionado, and no one asked me. I was just feeling sassy and opinionated. Luckily, no one can hear my thoughts, at least I think they can't.