Thursday, June 23, 2011


Some days I like to take the last couple blocks of my drive home down 43rd really slowly to look at the houses in all their pastel-painted, 70's architecture glory. I pause at the stop signs to look for oncoming traffic and to catch a glimpse of the glittery ocean on my left. There are always people walking, biking or just getting home, like me. Or a train rumbling down Taraval bell ringing noisily, a warning to get out of the way, fast. I notice the phone lines connecting all the houses and how they bend and sway.
This is the view from my driveway. Some people might look at this and think: Isn't there a more aesthetically pleasing way to keep everybody connected? And, I'll admit, I do wonder that too. But I also find it oddly charming. I like watching the angles of the lines relative to each other change from view to view as I roll up and down the hilly street. And I also find it ironic that people in my neighborhood tend to keep to themselves yet all the houses are tied together in such a bold way. Perhaps the lines keep them as connected as they want.

And to those of you that scoffed at the mention that I can actually see the ocean in the Sunset, an area known for its dense and depression-inducing fog [insert Sunset's most over-used line: "It's funny that they call it the Sunset, when you can never actually see the sun set."], I will have you know that most days I can see the ocean on my way home. We moved here in August and winter was pretty mild and mostly clear during the day, so far so good. I do know from my time at SF State, however, that from June until that one groundbreaking week in August where this side of the city turns around and decides to be gorgeous, that my prospects are pretty grim. I will still look over in the hopes that I can sneak a peek of the water through a hole in the fog, anyways.