San Francisco: Because I missed my Hufflepuff scarf

Do I talk about traveling on this blog? Not really. BUT LOOK AT THE BOOKS I BOUGHT.

These turned out to be eerily prescient re: the ensuing events of our trip,
complete with a fight between two men in a grassy field.

This was my third visit to San Francisco, and it came just in time for us to escape the heat wave currently enveloping Los Angeles in its smoggy embrace. Of course, I quickly forgot how much I dislike being hot when I was reminded how much I dislike being cold.

We drove up to one of the highest points in the city, called Twin Peaks (because of two hill-type protrusions, not because of David Lynch), where you can sometimes get a good view of the surrounding area. I say sometimes because when you go in a direction that is up in San Francisco, you will usually find yourself in the middle of a cloud.

The melancholy, dream-sequence kind

But if you don't mind being physically assaulted by the wind, the fog might dissipate just long enough to give you a view that makes you feel like a Care Bear.

Caring is what counts.

We also did a liiiittle bit of drinking. Our favorite bar in the Mission is one block over from my favorite bookstore in the Mission, both with cat in their names. At one I can get brand-new paperbacks for under $8 or used books for way cheap, and at the other I can get a PBR (shut it) and a Bulleit bourbon for $7 total. So far, I have succeeded in not getting the two places mixed up.

I'll have the new David Mitchell, please,
with a Joan Didion. No ice.

We went to another bar, Dogpatch Saloon in a neighborhood called Dogpatch. There's no graffiti on the tables there and the bathroom has a mirror and hand soap, which is FINE, if you like highfalutin' accommodations with your alcohol. The real perk is that people bring their dogs into the bar. So I spent most of the night thinking of excuses to leave our table and make meaningful eye contact with a dog until it abandoned its owner and allowed me to hug it with my whole body.

Fourth of July itself was a bit of a dud. We didn't plan ahead well enough to complete our obsessively ritualistic, three-day viewing of Independence Day, so we tried to watch the whole thing that morning. As if cramming arrival, attack, and fighting back into one day wasn't bad enough, we only had time to get through July 3, which does not end on a victorious note for humanity. That set a bad tone for the rest of the day.

I'm SAYIN'

We went to a friend's backyard BBQ in the afternoon and then dove headfirst into the maelstrom to see the professional fireworks over the bay. I've heard good things about this particular display, but I can't tell you from experience that any of them are true. Thanks to a heavy fog, what we saw was basically a very expensive thunderstorm with occasional twinkles.

I had to wait until Monday to see Tika because she had acute bronchitis all weekend. (The NERVE of that woman's bronchial tubes. I mean, really.) While we were waiting to meet up with her, we strolled around AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants.

GO DODGERS.

But then Tika and I locked eyes across a busy intersection, and I hummed "Chariots of Fire" quietly to myself as she ran across the street in heels, narrowly avoiding death by Smart Car.

We drove her home and topped off the trip with Pho and kitties and peering coyly over books.