Last Sunday Josh wound through the streets in and around Bernal Heights Park. Covered with a smooth layer of grass, it’s surface is almost featureless. Only a handful of trees, an antenna and it’s control room break up the monotony. We ascended to the peak via a gravel path, and spent a while contemplating the view. The Golden Gate bridge was visible. Coit Tower and the Transamerica building were not.
Along the east end, a fellow had planted a garden and parked his RV in what once was Mayflower Street. He and his dogs stared quizzically and unwelcomely as Josh and I discussed trespassing. GMaps, curiously enough, marks this with a dotted line.
Our path down the hill became more and more circuitous as we descended. Streets are often severed by hidden leafy stairways, split by retaining walls, and bent by rifts and valleys. Intersections almost always have three or five ways.
Back down in the Mission, we passed a group of high schoolers dancing on the sidewalk. Not break dancing, crumping, pop locking, or anything else remotely timely. They were practicing synchronized formal dancing, like one might do in a castle in the 1600s. Half were clad in formal wear, and the other jeans and white t-shirts.