Union Square

Francisco,

if there's one touristy spot i find a guilty pleasure, it's Union Square off Powell and Market Street. open air, ongoing foot traffic, and the most breathtaking panorama of urban life, it is a pristine spot to find all sorts of inspiration, especially for my writing.

a marvelous little concrete flatland edged on all corners by beautiful architecture and high-rises; Macy's flanks the the south, Tiffany and Co. opposite North, and the majestic Westin St. Francis is just on the western border with its scenic elevators that reach towards the skies and overlook the city. they've always considered you the "Paris of the West," and Union Square adequately supports this. it's romantic, beautiful, anitque-- it's hard not to feel like you're somewhere in Paris, sitting at a café and taking in all these gorgeous moving sights and sounds. yes, thank goodness for Emporio Rulli right on the eastern corner of the square. the coffee is reasonable and decent, a fresh finer taste to casually sip while i scribble in my notepad and examine the details to find a good story within. though overcast, the air is very warm and stiff. i love it all. i love the feeling of art and carefree admiration everyone is giving off. sitting outside on a day like this cannot be rivaled.

i must tell you how truly romantic you are; not be the biggest or most international urban spot in America, but who needs all that? i don't. what you have instead, Francisco, is the laid-back European pace of life and setting that invites its dwellers to act in the same peaceful and beautiful way-- to just laugh and enjoy life, to love it.

Paris

Muni Through North Beach

(ON HOW FERNAND'S PARENTS MET)

Curse the late hours of San Franciscan Thursdays.
He’d always walk down Stockton Street, through the crowded back streets of a bustling Chinatown. Worn small faces, lots of open-air produce, Cantonese, Mandarin— he really couldn’t tell the differences, it all meant the same place. Taking Muni was only for whenever he finished up late at the bar. If he’d chosen a job where sobriety was not mandatory— the bus rides would seem less dreadful if he could indulge in between his breaks.


She hated the awful music blaring through someone’s headphones in the back of the bus. She’d always been warned the treachery of back Muni seats. Her dark eyes scanned the 30, standing lankly and restless. She was taller than most of the other riders that held listless onto the overhead rails. Her coral lipstick upon her chapping lips she pressed tightly together to mute any thoughts she supposed were about to escape. She never liked talking. But it was best she conversed as much as she could— hoping to improve her English. At that moment she was just thinking to ask the smaller man in sweats if she’d be able to sit. He’d been on his cell phone for almost twenty minutes of the ride now. She remained standing hopelessly.

And He was just coming onto the bus, jostling through the bulging persons at the front and coming up against Her.

It was sometime in late August, 2011. She was French, he an Argentinian. Sweet strangers in an exciting subtle little world that didn’t quite feel American. And here José and Marie were cursing the late hours.

She put Arctic Monkeys’ “Cornerstone” on her heaphones to drown out all sounds. He could hear it through all the commotion. It wasn’t his favorite album, but he didn’t know anyone who would pass on that sultry sentimental song. He nudged closer without her noticing. He didn’t think much of her— just the tune. He appreciated her in the least, for having picked such a great band.

Then he smelled her hair. A loose fraying blonde bun wound at the nape of her neck where a rayon teal scarf was pedantic around her shoulders. It was Lavender, he was sure of it. His ears were finely tuned having heard “Conerstone,” his scent could not possibly dissapoint.

She was turning around, positioning herself so that her fringe faux-leather shoulder bag wouldn’t be up against the little bumbling girl on the seat to her right. An headphone fell out in this attempt, and as it swung out of her right ear it flicked José right below his brow.

Albeit accents, she pardoned herself like crazy and he smiling and assuring no offense. It was a little entertaining spectacle for few, rather unnoticed by all. That’s how Muni was— any oddity was a natural occurrence. And while he smiled gently, he glanced into her dark eyes. She was terribly confused and blushing.

Marie saw his eyes too. Still and green, like glass. He had a funny accent. Perhaps he was the only other one on that bus with one, too. In a swift second she was able to savor the smiles his mouth formed when gaping open with kind words, assuring her now that he shouldn’t have stood too close. He was saying now something about Arctic Monkeys— through his congenial voice there was nothing to apologize about anymore.

And now they laughed about the late hours, bartering mutual pleasantry in their brightening faces, of that fogged, cold Thursday.

Matching Half Café

Francisco,

it's strong, this chocolate blend. still tastes like coffee to me--oh wait, there it is! no wonder it's described as a "hint."
the sun's warm, and it shines down on my back sitting at the bar. the plywood stool matches perfectly with this sleek and simple interior; it makes this corner lot feel really spacious, and comforting too, with a vase whose flowers colorfully indicate the season. not too many people inside, but there's of course the occasional parent walking in with a child to get juice or a couple just out of class from USF a few blocks away. on the benches outside, the young raggedy threesome of painters have just finished their job at a Victorian up the hilly side of Baker and are settling down a bit for laughs and a second round of PBR.



i wouldn't say there's regulars, everytime i've been here there's always new faces. maybe the new cash register scares everyone-- even my first time here i was quite intimidated by swiping my debit card on the side of the iPad and getting a receipt via text message. i come to a coffee shop to escape the fast-pace of life outside the walls, because something about a hot cup of coffee or tea just sets life right, sets your mind at ease to just relax and step back to look around yourself. so it's funny that Matching Half should have such a contraption! it's any easier, it's stressful!

 

but still i come. i do homework, i relax. i read the other day, and tomorrow i'll probably write. or nothing. people alone are something to do, watch. the baristas are chatty and have their hair braided or cropped short. i give props to their music selection, Death Cab right now after a fast-tempo White Stripes. everyone seems to not mind. i've always taken a liking to cafes that feel like a bar. at these kinds of coffeehouses, you come for enjoyment and not work, and you can feel it in the room. for starters, the bar seating, overlooking the shelves stacked high with wine and mugs. and don't forget the shameless placement of Sight Glass coffee grounds on every inch of the counters and in between. it's all a bit pricy, but every drink's worth it, this choclate blend too. but it was the hot chocolate that changed my mind-- only the finest and thickest i've tasted like no where else! sometimes the Mexican Cokes just do the trick.
it's the quintissential corner coffeeshop for the neighborhood, the usual hidden gem whose twin you can find in almost every other little neighborhood, like Cup-O-Joe on Hayes or Four Barrel in the Mission. but Matching Half is mine; it's close, convenient, and very unique, quiet. it keeps to itself, here and ready to entertain or to nod and smile when you're just passing by. that's the beauty of you, Francisco, for just this sprawl of local mom and pops on every other street, and somehow they all thrive without serious competition against each other. how do you manage that, Francisco? how do you make the smallest of dreams, be it giving the cafes business or the people of the City a fine and heartfelt place to meet and drink, be possible?

i cool this next sip and toast to you,

Paris

Divisadero

That public chalkboard there, tacked to the ratty sallow planks of that vacant shop, it got Tommy all excited. She was taken there after the quick lunch at Popeyes up Divis, she sure was famished and could eat anything. She wrote her name first and moved aside for Tommy to write his with a lump of blue chalk from the wire basket. He bolded his name under the huge D I C K S another wandering dissident scribbled in red. They tied the names together with a +.


Tommy’s decent now. Works by the docks for an espresso machine packer near the West Oakland tracks. Pays the $925 for his place off of I-680, and makes sure the pantry’s stalked with Yerba Matte for the sensitive roommates. He’s got his third flimsy notepad from the 99 cent place to keep him company on his commute to West Oakland. When he reaches that destination he wonders if it’s the real thing. If he should still keep onward until the City.



He’s writing nonstop those messy love letters stapled in the red ink to the yellow paper, words she would never know and wouldn’t understand now. Some days Tommy sits in the car thinking he should go on. He’s decent, but he doesn’t understand himself.


That public chalkboard still there, tacked to the ratty sallow planks of that decay, Tommy doesn’t understand why he shouldn’t go forth and see it again. Has she seen it? Did they fade?


Tommy’s decent now.


She’d not understand now.


And what it means to stay the same now, seeing if the names of that golden past still in dust, still + hand in hand? Decent Tommy, these things do you understand?