"Rose, about the flowers in your hair, would they be-"
"Oh shut up, Strider."
--
The first thing you notice about San Francisco is the rainbow flags. They're not everywhere, per se, but they're a hell lot more frequent than in Texas, that's for sure. You find guys kissing in the street and girls holding hands on the bus. Rose whispers into your ear about bringing your brother here someday and you quirk your mouth upwards.
The first place she insists visiting above all else is the City Lights bookstore. Manned by a scruffy guy in a black sweater, somewhere beyond the industrious Chinatown, you step into a world with bookshelves up the ceiling and creaking wood. It's quiet. You can imagine hippies playing their guitar on the roof and you two lose hours in there. She reads Howl-first published there in 1956-upstairs and you wander around the banned books section simply absorbing blurbs.
There's Ferlinghetti on the counter when you plop down a few books to buy and you read about the art of poetry. There's so much here. There's graffiti splattered outside in the wall facing the street and a man singing love songs on the corner. There's print on the glass window that says Turn off your sell phone.
"So what do you think?"
"I can feel myself growing a craving for weed every second we stay here. Fuck that, let's throw in the whole display case of illegal substances in there. It's a pile-on of drug abuse, Rose, hop on."
"I don't think we have enough in our budget for that, Dave."
--
Chinatown is a buzz of food and foreign dialects. You pick a restaurant by random and order the roast duck. It's crispy and delicious and there's exclamations:
"I have no apologies for the ancestors or relatives of this flightless bird. The consumption was had without guilt. I have no regrets for this piteous yet delectable fowl."
"That was the heaven of dinners. All the atheists in the area are singing hallelujahs and drinking grape juice and shit. I didn't think it was possible to get a foodboner fuck I am glad to have been so wrong."
You cross the Golden Gate Bridge. Her lilac jacket tied around her waist and you're both in tank tops. Yours is black. Obviously for the irony, she has decided to wear the I'm with this idiot one. Obviously. The sun is scorching but you both make it across, albeit more tan and full of sarcastic remarks about the romanticised graffiti.
You finally, finally get to ride a cable car. It's faster than you imagined and San Francisco has some unimaginably steep streets. The buildings are small and you can see the roofs gleaming and flower shops and convenience stores and roads stretching below you like a stairway to accident city.
The city's beautiful. You ride until the sky turns purple and orange and finally you tear your eyes away from the scenery. You look at her. She's beautiful now, her hair wind-tossed and admiring the lights of the city fade into illumination. A genuine smile is pulling at her lips. Her purple eyes are bright and her scarf trails in front of her, flowing into the background. She's your Rose. Uncanny and smart and quick.
You dig out the camera stealthily. This is what you want to remember the most, you think.
You align your eye to the tiny square and snap her picture.
(she'll discover it in the darkroom someday and you'll fight over it like wolves. but in the end, she'll let you keep it. summertime is a love-in here. even in photos.)
FILL: TEAM ENGLISH
"Oh shut up, Strider."
--
The first thing you notice about San Francisco is the rainbow flags. They're not everywhere, per se, but they're a hell lot more frequent than in Texas, that's for sure. You find guys kissing in the street and girls holding hands on the bus. Rose whispers into your ear about bringing your brother here someday and you quirk your mouth upwards.
The first place she insists visiting above all else is the City Lights bookstore. Manned by a scruffy guy in a black sweater, somewhere beyond the industrious Chinatown, you step into a world with bookshelves up the ceiling and creaking wood. It's quiet. You can imagine hippies playing their guitar on the roof and you two lose hours in there. She reads Howl-first published there in 1956-upstairs and you wander around the banned books section simply absorbing blurbs.
There's Ferlinghetti on the counter when you plop down a few books to buy and you read about the art of poetry. There's so much here. There's graffiti splattered outside in the wall facing the street and a man singing love songs on the corner. There's print on the glass window that says Turn off your sell phone.
"So what do you think?"
"I can feel myself growing a craving for weed every second we stay here. Fuck that, let's throw in the whole display case of illegal substances in there. It's a pile-on of drug abuse, Rose, hop on."
"I don't think we have enough in our budget for that, Dave."
--
Chinatown is a buzz of food and foreign dialects. You pick a restaurant by random and order the roast duck. It's crispy and delicious and there's exclamations:
"I have no apologies for the ancestors or relatives of this flightless bird. The consumption was had without guilt. I have no regrets for this piteous yet delectable fowl."
"That was the heaven of dinners. All the atheists in the area are singing hallelujahs and drinking grape juice and shit. I didn't think it was possible to get a foodboner fuck I am glad to have been so wrong."
You cross the Golden Gate Bridge. Her lilac jacket tied around her waist and you're both in tank tops. Yours is black. Obviously for the irony, she has decided to wear the I'm with this idiot one. Obviously. The sun is scorching but you both make it across, albeit more tan and full of sarcastic remarks about the romanticised graffiti.
You finally, finally get to ride a cable car. It's faster than you imagined and San Francisco has some unimaginably steep streets. The buildings are small and you can see the roofs gleaming and flower shops and convenience stores and roads stretching below you like a stairway to accident city.
The city's beautiful. You ride until the sky turns purple and orange and finally you tear your eyes away from the scenery. You look at her. She's beautiful now, her hair wind-tossed and admiring the lights of the city fade into illumination. A genuine smile is pulling at her lips. Her purple eyes are bright and her scarf trails in front of her, flowing into the background. She's your Rose. Uncanny and smart and quick.
You dig out the camera stealthily. This is what you want to remember the most, you think.
You align your eye to the tiny square and snap her picture.
(she'll discover it in the darkroom someday and you'll fight over it like wolves. but in the end, she'll let you keep it. summertime is a love-in here. even in photos.)