Photo by X.A. Medina (http://lepoet.tumblr.com/)

I landed in San Francisco and took the BART into the city. I got off and walked down Market Street. I ordered tacos and a Modelo from Taqueria Castillo B 2 on Mason Street. A black man noticed my backpack and asked me if I had been to all those places that my patches showed. I said I had. He asked me what made me want to go to all those places. I said I didn’t know. Curiosity I guessed.

He finished his Burrito and told me I should take off soon, I was in a bad neighborhood, he told me. He blamed the slum hotels. I thought it didn’t seem so bad but continued to walk up Market Street. I walked past the gang of bike messengers hanging in the public squares, their bikes slanting against trash cans and sign posts. I sat in one of those squares and got a coffee waiting for my friend to get off work.

I sought out the sun for it was chilly. No on would accuse San Francisco of bad weather, but it’s not good weather either.

My friend seemed tired and depressed. The distance from the rest of the country making her sad. The distance between her neighbors houses making her sadder.

Since I had known her she had always been happy, and as we sat across Mexican beers in the backyard of an American biker bar I wondered if it was safe to admit that I was not happy either. Instead I held my tongue and we finished our beers.