![]() ![]() ![]() People in costumes milled about amid a crowd of young men and women in bluejeans. Bouquets of lavender, pink, and silver balloons clouded the sky, and bands were warming up. Rounding a corner, we came upon a line of stationary floats. The Gay Freedom Day Parade had not yet begun. “We’re on gay time, so the parade won’t have started yet.” He was right. At the bottom of the hill, skyscrapers wheeled across our horizon, and the truck careered through the deserted canyons of the financial district heading for the waterfront. On Russian Hill, Victorian houses with ice-cream-colored façades seemed to reflect this bewilderment of seasons. On Pacific Heights, the roses were blooming, the hollies were in berry, and enormous clumps of daisies billowed out from under palm trees. It was a Sunday morning, and the streets were almost empty, so our pickup truck sped uninterrupted up and down the hills, giving those of us in the back a Ferris- wheel view of the city. ![]() The sun shone out of a cerulean sky, lighting the streets to a shadowless intensity. It was one of those days in San Francisco when the weather is so close to perfect that there seems to be no weather. ![]()
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December 2022
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