In high school, I wrote a poem about San Francisco around 2004. I framed it in my scrapbook. I saw it again in the scrapbook and had the urge to share. Ah, nostalgia.
Gold-maker of the world.
Refugee to the unusual and creative.
Home of enriched diversity.
The city where the fog roams free.
The true capital of California.
A place of monumental history…where to begin?
Do I first gaze at the wondrous Golden Gate Bridge?
Or do I drive through the historic Crooked Street?
Maybe should I take the next ferry ride to “The Rock?”
Or even pass by Fisherman Wharf’s in those classic trolleys?
A place where you can meet exotic people…Who should I meet first?
I could meet a flamboyant businessman on the Castro District.
Or I could converse with an ageless hippie at Haight-Ashbury.
Maybe I could mingle with a prostitute on Broadway.
Or even shop with the sophisticated and posh at Union Square.
A place where ethnic food is an endless variety…Which culture should I explore first?
Should I stop by the Mission District and taste their feisty burritos?
Or should I travel to Chinatown and nibble on their irresistible dumplings?
Maybe I should stop by Blondie’s on Market Street and bite their irresistible pizzas?
Or even travel to Haight District and eat a Caribbean dish at Cha, Cha, Cha?
A place where hobbies of interest clash…Where to begin?
I could stop by the Marina and stare at the wondrous creations of the Exploratorium.
Or I could have a bonfire with my friends at Ocean Beach.
Maybe I should watch a movie at the Metereon on Market Street.
Or even dance at the night clubs in Downtown San Francisco.
A place of awe and ecstasy.
Dancing. Laughing. Exploring. Sharing. Clashing. Conversing.
Every turn around the corner is jaw-dropping.
This magical city distinguishes itself in California.
My senses may be tainted for eternity, but I would not change a damn thing.