A Catalogue of the Senses

San Francisco is a sensual paradise. My life there was full of sights and smells and sounds so unique and strong that I miss the city itself as much as my life within it. The eucalyptus, permeating the parks as well as pant cuffs and stroller wheels—smelling faintly acrid like cat urine, but spicy and dark and alluring as well. The strength of the coffee smell that would follow me home from working at Café Abir—the slightly off smell of liquor and syrupy, rotting fruit that clings to the mats and counters of an unopened bar. The crinkly and sharp sting of soy sauce that trailed me home from tsunami

And the sounds—the hushed, deep, far-off sound of foghorns as I lay in bed at night. The electric hum of the buses as they accelerated up the street, the clanking and whirring of the cables beneath the downtown streets. The winding up and holding constant of the siren that sounded every Tuesday at noon (sometimes the only sign that time was indeed passing in the season-less city). The wind clacking of the long hard leaves of the eucalyptus trees, clapping together like tentative applause—the onset and rush of wind as the trees bent above the park. The rough scratchy grating sound of skate boards speeding down the hill I lived on. The sound of the Ocean and the grinding sing of sand beneath my feet on the beach. The echoing scrape of heels on pavement in the quiet morning hours when I went to open the café. The gulls screeching and circling above AT&T park at the end of a Giants’ game. The too-loud gruff voice of my downstairs neighbor—the hollow knock of knuckles against my backdoor. Once, I changed my phone’s ring to church bells and for a full week I missed every call but would stop and wonder at the sound, thinking I’d never noticed the church bells before.

The sights. A slice of bay floating between tall buildings. The red reaching of the Golden Gate Bridge leading into the fog or green of the Headlands. The white and yellow bleaching of the sun on everything, that is a different kind of light than anywhere else in the world. The pleasure of a lit taxi sign in the dark blue of night just when you need it. The elegant arches of Chinatown—the dirty lighted Broadway tunnel which one night I walked through, silently, and felt transformed. North Beach lit up and sinful with strip clubs and XXX shops, but also the cloistered setting of City Lights Bookstore. Streets so steep there are steps carved into the sidewalks. The segmented sky, gridded and divided up by the buses wires overhead. The gleam of a headlight shooting along the wires before it crests the hill. SFUs chaple steeple lit up a glowing yellow white against the early night sky. Pan handlers and people in all kinds of dress; people lounging and talking on every corner. Vibrant, violently colorful murals in the Mission. Color everywhere.

A city where every single person knows they live in the most beautiful city in the world.