In Washington Square Park the street bound are unfurling from their makeshift bedding, rubbing beards, stretching and shielding the morning sun from their eyes. Dogs are fetching balls on the green and in the shadow of St. Peter and Paul Church the Chinese matrons in colorful garb are practicing their Tai Chi.
At venerable Original Joe’s the morning crew is busy wiping down the outside tables getting ready for the Saturday crowds. Same at The Little Red Window. Same at Tony’s Pizza. Same at Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store.
At Victoria Pastry the sun baked outdoor tables are all taken.
Liguria Bakery started selling their focaccia at 7:30. Ninety minutes later the sign on the door says, Sold Out. You don’t go to Liguria at 8 on Saturday morning expecting to bring the family a slab of rosemary-garlic focaccia unless you’re into receiving verbal flagellation, “What do you mean, they’re broke? You useless fuck. You couldn’t get your ass out of bed earlier to get in line at 7:00?”
Already approaching 70 degrees (21 C. in the civilized world) life here in San Francisco’s North Beach is good. Very good.
On the other side of the world?
Not so much.
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