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.  

I am walking around in an area that exudes incredible wealth. Even though my mouth is covered, it is agape, as I cannot fathom living in one of these grand houses. The funny thing is that I have lived in the Bay Area a long time, and I have never truly studied this neighborhood. It is largely residential so not one of my regular destinations. I have, however, frequented these types of neighborhoods for walks during the pandemic, and they tend to be quiet and calm. 

I stand in awe of one very modern house that looks like a New York gallery. I have my camera aimed at it as a gentleman walks to the car in the driveway. His uniform indicates he is an employee rather than a resident, and he looks at me uncomfortably. I try to casually ask if an art collector lives there. I am not sure why the words come out of my mouth and now feel like a stalker creep. I turn to walk away and spot a well endowed robot sculpture across the street. The absurdity of it in this rather buttoned up neighborhood makes me laugh. 

One house that I find particularly intriguing is adorned with a placard from the 1915 Panama Pacific International Exposition. Many of the tourist destinations of San Francisco are from that time. I wonder what purpose this mansion served and daydream about the sights and sounds of that era. I come back to earth, with one toe stuck in the past. 

I walk a toward the fishing pier to a road I previously thought was a dead end. At a certain point there is a security guard and a sign for authorized vehicles only. This is the road for the workers that maintain the bridge. I notice a bike path and ask if I may walk here. I get an ok from the guard and head up the hill. 

I am pretty much alone for most of my walk, and I admire the bridge from underneath. It reminds me of the erector set my brother had when we were kids. All the parts seem purposeful but also precarious. It is an impressive structure and feels otherworldly from this perspective. 

The hills are dry and exude a certain scent, hot brush that waits for rainy season. Is it the end of summer headed into fall or fall headed into winter? I have lost track, and seasons vary only slightly in these parts.  

I stop before the hill meets the top of the bridge and the cars roll by. I'm enjoying the landscape below, this flipped perspective. It is unusually quiet here. The city sits in the distance waving hello. I miss freely walking on its city streets, ducking into art museums, galleries and local coffee shops. I miss the spontaneous encounters with strangers and friends. I miss losing time because I am actively filling it, not for all the reasons that burden us now. 

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.