It’s not hard to imagine this beach — with its stillness, its haziness, its prickly dune grass-iness — as a world apart from the rest of the city. In earlier days San Franciscans used to weekend or vacation here, but now we just mostly make the journey for bread (albeit really amazing bread) as well as the lemon ginger apple cider spiked with buffalo trace bourbon. During the interminable wait for a table at Outerlands, I waded through the dunes and watched the few brave sunbathers out on the sand, taking their vitamin D when they could get it. A small child was attempting to learn how to cartwheel and I could see his mouth move but his shouts were carried away by the wind.
Earlier that morning I had climbed to my rooftop for a weather report. Sunny and bright skies all above me, and no trace of fog on the horizon towards the ocean. I dressed in sheer and thin materials – blacks and blues – layered accordingly for the unexpected shift in weather, and ran like crazy for the bus. Only once already on it did I realize the tears in my nylons were inexcusable for public display. Fortunately, the lure of eggs won out over any commensurable embarrassment.