Above the commercial area of North Beach is the neighborhood of Telegraph Hill. It is easy to spot with Coit Tower at its peak. I walk on the quietest streets and work my way to the tower. I stand just below and look for the parrots that call these trees home. I cannot hear or see them today and recall the many times I felt glee in their presence. 

Stairs converge and there is a small gathering of people venturing to where the views are vast and necks crane. I stay back in my own curated adventure. What's down this alley? How old is this house? What's being built down there? Who owns that vintage car? Does that dog know the world is different now? Exactly how cold is the water in the bay? No one answers these imagined conversation starters. I can feel the muscles in my legs burn a bit as I go up and down the steepest streets, mazing and lazing about. 

The first time I visited Coit Tower, I remember being more fascinated with the collected coins people threw in the window ledges than I was about the glorious view. What were their wishes and from where had the coins traveled? I also remember the time, when out pedaling and forgetting my lock, I rolled my bicycle inside to study the murals. They were primarily painted in the 1930s by students and faculty of the same school I attended just a stones throw from here. 

Like most days, I try to stay the explorer, the optimist, the gatherer of images. I try not to let the weight of these recent months consume me. When I am out roaming about, even in a place very familiar, I see new things. I bring my collected experience and also a heart wide open, ready for the joy of the unforeseen. That joy is a bit bittersweet as of late, but it is joy all the same. 

I have a couple different paths I normally follow when walking in the town where I live. These are not designated paths but repeated wanderings that are now routine. On this day, I veer off onto a hill that normally only gets a bit of side eye. I turn any direction that sends me further up. The landscape gets a bit more wild and the homes more hidden. My legs get that wobbly feeling they get when I am at great heights. To me, this is not a fear but an involuntary reaction, my mind just reminding me not to stumble into some great unknown crevasse. I imagine my legs like rubber bands when this happens and giggle quietly about it. 

Navigating these narrow, no shoulder, roads can be a bit tricky at times. Mostly it is just me and the trees, but when it is not, I am an awkward walker. To create distance, I trespass into strangers driveways to let other parties pass. Other times, I am trapped, too close to an oblivious unmasked individual. Then, I can be found, back turned, staring into some shrubbery, hiding my disgust and shielding my masked face. The higher I climb, the less people I encounter. Redwoods create a feeling of otherworldliness and calm that I welcome.

As always, I prefer to find my way without a map. This works until I want to attempt to get home. I do get out my phone and ask the map lady to send me down the hill a different way than I came. In the spot where I stand, there is a narrow hiking path, a driveway, a residential street and the seeming end of the street I am on. I do what the map lady tells me and the dot runs along the wrong street and shows me eventually back up the hill. I turn another direction and hit a dead end. I return to where I came from and look for what I might have missed. Ultimately, I backtrack, taking the long way home.

One thing that this pandemic has taught me is that the slow, long way may seem cumbersome, but in the end allows for greater reward. I've always been one to lose time due to wandering, but what I gain is invaluable. It's never dilly dallying if it is made of dreaming and delight.

I don't feel much like exploring but know it is for my own good that I do. I have a particular destination in mind but find parking to be sparse. I drive around until I find an easy spot, then set out on foot in a bit of a mope. The longer I am outside my mood is lifted and my spirit less blue. 

I walk down the hill all the way to the Great Highway. It is closed to traffic now, with four lanes open to pedestrians and cyclists. The wind is gusty, so the humans are hibernating. So many times I have come here by bicycle and had to fight traffic to enjoy my ride. It is wonderful to have so much space here now.  

Just over the wall at the beach, there is a dog playing chase with a raven. The dog leaps high and the raven dips low. They frolic, both willing to dance with danger in order to have a little fun. I can almost hear them laughing. 

When I turn to go back up the hill, a strong aroma penetrates the four layers of my mask. It is ham, the kind we used to eat during the holidays when I was a child. Oddly I savor it, even though I have not eaten meat in over thirty years. It is a comfort I will not partake in now, but it is the feeling that it evokes that is my keepsake. 

I get out my phone and record some thoughts. It is not something that I do. I am alone on the street and no one is listening. Is this what I have become? A wanderer who babbles nonsensically to herself? Whatever the reason, I am laughing for now. This is what matters most. 

Fires recently engulfed the area surrounding this beautiful beach. I watched the progress and air quality daily and expected to now see it charred and withered. Instead, there is evidence but not ultimate destruction. Nature finds a balance as long as we don't stand too headstrong in its way. 

As we walk, a raven is in lockstep with our movements. We say hello as he skips beside us. It is delightful and quite charming. As I reach for my camera, he doesn't exit the scene like most of the corvids usually do. Seeing my curious glance, he does a little dance and pauses for a snack or two. Every time I look for his wings to be outstretched, he is just strolling at a safe distance. 

The beach is sparsely populated, so we are able to breath freely at least part of the time. The salt air smells good and my lungs fill, crisp and clean. Various sea birds flit about feasting on what washes ashore. This is a good mid December morning, in the year 2020. 

It doesn't always matter where I am if the sky is that mesmerizing hue that makes all things sing. It is not the deep grey blue of melancholia but a clean, bright blue I want to jump into and swim, diving deep, toes pointed, fingers outstretched. When I tire, it carries me, weightless, floating and serene.  

I visit an area of the city where I worked when I was in graduate school and was living in the Bay Area for the very first time. The shops are empty now, devoid of tourists. It is nice but also haunting. In regular times, I still come here to visit the birds that eat the seafood behind the facade of fanciful fisherman themed trinkets and sourdough bread. I also come to drop coins in the machines at the Musée Mécanique and to visit the sea lions. 

I want to venture to all my favorite places in San Francisco, but I don't; I won't. I hang mostly on the edges to be in but also out. I find myself looking in locations I have not looked before. The sense of discovery delights me. We are at the height of the pandemic and in lockdown again. I have not faltered in my cautious state, and this is my logging of time until we see the end. After the end, it will continue. 

The beach is beautiful as always, but it appears that the birds have been suffering a bit. There are more than a few carcasses in the sand. Perhaps these mark the end of well lived, flight filled days - but perhaps not. I'd like to ask the ravens, but they are busy feasting on the feathered dead (disturbing but true). They also dine on watermelon and french bread. 

Mist rises and falls, forming temporary clouds on the surface of the water. Surfers dive in and out of wide waves. One loses his board which finds its way to the sand, resulting in a passerby becoming a good samaritan. I lose my mind to salty daydreams. 

I don't put any rocks in my pocket today, but that doesn't mean I'm not looking for treasure. I recently read of an abandoned coal mine here. I count the gaps in the rock, guessing where the void falls deep. With my camera, I collect images of what shall be left undisturbed, the shared space of critters and man. I thank the winged ones for letting me walk among them, because it is we who have taken way too much.  

Oh dappled day, you shine on me. I walk, eyes squinting. Tears fall, unaware of their origin. Smiles hide on a face half covered. Bones ache from the stillness that keeps them safe. Time dances on in spite of itself. 

Shadows fall quickly in the last days of a terrifically terrible year. In the muck, magic is made, the wellspring of creativity and hope. Understanding good is not possible without seeing its reverse. The balance is where beauty hangs its hat. 

The park is precarious, so I mainly walk in a field, away from the humans and the tourist spots that draw them here. The grass is wet and I watch as my boots turn from light brown to a soggy deep hue. The sun is bright and air cool; it is a nice day to be in the park. I hold on to the memories of exploring here, when occasional small talk with strangers occurred without underlying fear of contagion. 

I focus on the animals, small birds whose names I do not know, large birds whose names I do, the police horses that hide behind the casting pools, dogs on long leashes, critters underground who have made themselves known with the dirt piles above. I go to see the bison but cannot get close enough to get a proper picture. I admire them from afar and send a mental signal of "hey, remember me?" 

I can picture the other parts of the park I don't dare go on this day. I can recall how I felt standing by the dahlias, sticking my nose in every plant in the fragrance garden, watching the lawn bowlers, pretending I'm in the Netherlands when standing under the windmills, exploring the museums of art and science, listening to music by the park band, eating ice cream out of a local food truck, pedaling my bike through with a smile on my face many glorious days. Those carefree days will come again. For now, a beautiful day with a small side of anxiety is acceptable. 

On this day, I have come to the beach to remember an old friend who left us one year ago this month. I brought with me a candle made by another mutual friend in her honor. I envision myself with the candle lit, walking in the sand, with her spirit beside me. However, to light this candle, I have brought matches I got at a bar over 30 years ago. They are from a place we went together when we were too young to be in bars. These matches, marking the year we met, need to light this particular candle. But they don't. I use every match. 

As the last match is blown out by the wind, I laugh and feel my friend laughing with me. I stop to pick up stones, except they aren't the moody dark stones I normally reach for. They are bright white with hints of green, like moss growing inside snow. My friend is choosing them; my hand is hers. I continue to enthusiastically reach for them until my pocket is heavy and wet with rocks. The unlit candle sits in my other pocket. I feel the weight of absence alongside the joy of the moment, the shared love of the ocean.

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.