The city was an adventure. Everyone warned of traffic
because of the Super Bowl, but it did not seem to affect things in the Castro
much, just as I had suspected. The
Football revelers would be at San Francisco’s versions of Times Square:
Fisherman’s Wharf and Union Square, mostly. It's too bad we can't store them all at Alcatraz island, somehow. Today, they will all be heading
south to the 49ers stadium (Levi), which is about 49 miles south of San
Francisco, and the boy and I will be heading north, so traffic should not be an issue, for those of you that are interested by travel, weather, and traffic issues.
For foodies: my friend, the boy, and I all went to get pizza last night.
I wore a brand new white t-shirt, which guarantees that I’ll end up with tomato
sauce or oil on it somehow, and I was right. The boy was excited and I held my
hand out for something, in his excitement he thought I was asking for a high
five. I pulled my hand away and he connected with the flat top of the pizza,
sending pizza sauce everywhere, including my new white shirt. It is some odd
law of the universe. I cannot wear a white t-shirt more than once, unblemished.
The restaurant was quaint and delightful and we enjoyed meatballs and pizza and wine.
This morning we will go to some sort of brunch and maybe
have a little adventure at a nearby park. Who knows. The boy and I will return
to the hills of Sonoma to watch the Super Bowl sometime around noon. He will go one way, with his mother, and I will go another.
That is the pattern that we have chosen, it seems.
That is the pattern that we have chosen, it seems.
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