Summer in San Francisco is a lonely affair. It’s cloudy. It’s windy. Fog reigns. Even the Sunset district, curled up next to Ocean Beach, gets dismal and settles into gloomy hibernation, suddenly self conscious of its cracked sidewalks and sagging roofs.

Francois and my brother visit, both from warmer climates. We drink too much for old times sake but get lost in the dizzying effects of the booze, waking from restless sleep with dry throats, suddenly aware that it’s almost time to go back to our separate realities. Pull the chair closer to the desk. Start anew.

But for now we hike above the clouds and the sunlight makes the dry grass gold – warm -we’re suddenly aware of how big it all is. The vast space spans further than we can see.

We cross the Golden Gate, orange and strong, and I start to feel summer is ending, fall beginning. Frankie puts on a song, Nana, and we bounce into the city. From East to West, Nana delivers a bit of familiar energy – weird and lovable – melancholic but comforting.

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