Friday, March 06, 2009
I Left My Heart
My first city is beautiful in her Easter finery. Boston wears spring like a joyous young lady of another age in an exuberant hat, ribbons down her back, a frilled parasol in her one hand as the other holds up the skirts of her new dress so that she may dash with shockingly childish glee in the direction of the ice cream vendor as her chaperone is left to heave her grey severity off of a park bench grumbling in the proverbial dust. San Francisco I have never seen in spring. I have seen her sunning herself oiled and glittering in a long hot summer that extends its reach far into autumn. She is distracted, seemingly lost in her own dreams as she sips a margarita beneath the broad brim of her thrift shop hat the dark lenses of her cat’s-eye sunglasses masking a gaze that may focus on the throng, the Maupin novel, the bougainvillea or nothing at all. Somewhere a window opens and the air is infused with a sensuous beat. In one fluid motion she rises, doffs her hat, plucks a cold beer from somewhere, perhaps nowhere, and taking a long slow draught begins to dance, a glorious confusion of sensuous undulation and peals of innocent laughter at once alone, before an audience, at one with a crowd, part of a tribe. How can one not miss that?