Ask Where Firefly Is

Oh, San Francisco.  The renters who’d been in my friend’s place have departed and we’re in Monterey Heights, up above Saint Francis Wood.   Bathed in late summer fog, my friend was confused about how to turn the heat back on.  It’s freezing. I go down to the kitchen table to have an early call.  No, no.  We’ll need the sweater and the coat and some socks. 

The GPS suggested it would take forty-two minutes to driver from here to Walnut Creek.  I left an hour but when I updated the map there was red everywhere.  It was now going to take an hour and a half.  I lived in San Francisco for five years between the two boom times.  Traffic has most assuredly gotten worse.  Even at 2:00PM you can’t get within miles of the Bay Bridge without the whole show stopping. I called my 3:00PM meeting and told him I’d be late. 

I later called my 4:30PM and my 7:00PM call and my 7:30 dinner.  Once the first domino falls there is nothing to do but rearrange them all. Certainly, it’s easier to drive in the U.S.  You can go faster and it’s all more logical.  People’s behavior is predictable.  But I would hate to do this every day.  I would not want to move back to this nonsense. 

Trudging up 24^th Street, an hour late I stop a woman on the street and ask where Firefly is.  “It’s two blocks up.  You’ll smell it.”  My T-Mobile sim doesn’t seem to work here in this section of Noe.  I can’t text my friend or look for this restaurant but now I move with confidence.  There’s a light outside shaped like an incandescent bug.  “I’m joining a friend. He’s been waiting for a long time . . .“  “Yes.  He’s right back there.”  I bow, as I approach. 

Thursday 9/6/18