san francisco through botanic eyes: petals, parking meters, and pretzels
i just checked and it’s 11.35 out here, which means the fog’s probably doing its usual part-time job somewhere near the marina. smells a bit like wet concrete and jasmine here, if you believe the lady shouting at her monstera in the alley behind the mission.
she was right, though. the horticulture at palace of fine arts feels like walking into some rich person’s edom two-pack, but it’s easy to get lost in the way the eucalyptus trembles when the wind hits. pro tip: if you want to eat a pretzel off a parking meter, wait till the sun hits the maritime plaza at 3pm. the salt eats through the iron faster than online dating apps here.
someone told me that the food mills staff will let you diffuse a drop of clary sage on their counter for 5$, citing wellness trends or something. i tried it and immediately got asked to leave by a woman in a cracked leather jacket who identified herself only as ‘mr. oliv’. tried to explain the olfactory layering but she just sided the door open and said ‘check back if you ever want to know what real resistance feels like.’
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i took that to mean a yes on the sage. also tried the ‘critical cult’ strain they sell at the bar and it made that pavement look like a shag carpet from a study in all-blue women’s clothing ads. seriously. not joking. my legs kept vibrating like they’d forgotten how to fold.
done with the village where the trees judge your parking choices? me neither.
buyers beware: the t-mobile store near the civic center claims their espresso machine is ‘industrial grade’ but it’s basically a dumbwaiter with a sign that says ‘hurry up’ in a language from the 1800s. i heard that through the grapevine, then verified it while waiting 20 minutes to pee in the restroom that looked like it was still in escrow.
if you get bored, o’clock is just a short drive away. same if you need to convince yourself you’re not an urban explorer but just someone parking a broken scooter by the dunes. bougainvillea at the embarcadero doesn’t care. neither does the fog, which followed me all the way to the bart station to whisper about climate tax bills in the bathroom stall.
immigrant tip: the one and only olive ridley? she’s here, downtown, selling dried chili peppers and brussels sprout seeds like they’re going out of style. told me the best way to eat a budgie in this city is to do it at the solar panel on top of that carnival game at the ballpark. she said the glare helps you see the seeds in your teeth better.
uncharacteristically, i’m not lying about that last part. probably. maybe.
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