San Francisco

I love writing stories about different cities, especially now that I'm a professional sky-surfer. It's exciting to re-live the moments I spent in each town, or to conjure scenarios that never actually took place. This particular story falls into the first category. As I sit in the West Palm airport, I can remember every detail of my SanFran adventure. I will return to Northern California. Hopefully, soon.

Love, Lisa


“If It’s Love” replays in my head as I cross the street. I try focusing on the lyrics. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, I’ll forget about the numbing cold. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

“I’m not in it to win it; I’m in it for you,” I sing, keeping my voice low so the passing cars won’t hear me. A shiver runs down my back. If I’d known San Francisco was only 60 degrees, I would’ve brought a jacket. Or, at the very least, a thicker sweatshirt.

But nobody packs winter clothes in August. It’s the month of flip-flops and t-shirts. Boston was sweltering last week; sweat dripped down my back after walking two blocks to get to Stop & Shop. Richmond had been hot enough to confine me to a rooftop pool for several hours…not that I was bothered by that. Even Buffalo, a city notorious for its bad weather, broke 80 degrees.

Apparently San Francisco didn’t get the memo that it’s summertime. The city’s stuck in February mode. It feels arctic.

I spot the BART station up ahead. My heart skips a beat; this train will bring me downtown. Nancy swore that this is the best place in the world. She oughta know, having lived in about twenty foreign countries. I can’t wait to discover why San Fran is so special. All it’s going to cost me is ten bucks for a BART pass.

Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I check to see if Calli texted me yet. She’s due in at ten o’clock. Right now, she’s probably shoving some last-minute items in her suitcase. I’ll bet she’s bursting with excitement. Calli’s never been one to downplay emotions; she doesn’t believe in toning things down. We’re exactly the same in that regard.

I hurry inside the station, swiping my plastic card like an expert. These machines are identical to the ones in DC. There are little doors that open and shut like alligator jaws, as opposed to the turnstyles you find in Chicago. San Francisco bears no resemblance to the Windy City, which is fine by me. I’m used to being far from home.

The train is clean, quiet. After all, it’s four o’clock on a Wednesday. Not exactly peak travel time. An announcement floats over the loudspeakers, informing me this is the red line. As we begin to move, I study the map hanging over the door. Embarcadero-that’s the stop I want.

My cell phone has zero bars in here. I blink, staring at the dormant screen. Calli might be calling, but there’s nothing I can do about that. For now, anyway.

I try picturing her face. It’s been two whole years, which is enough time for the brain to fog up. I can remember certain details, though.

Her smile was the first thing I noticed. I’d been working at Countrywide for a whole ten minutes when her thousand-watt grin caught my attention. With long, wavy hair and an addictive laugh, she stood out. Calli was a beam of light in our stuffy, window-less office.

But her exterior wasn’t half as luminous as her personality. Calli contained so much passion that is spilled from her mouth, poured from her eyes. She was determined to be a singer. She still clutches that dream. In fact, it’s the reason she is coming here. Auditions are tomorrow morning. She’s been practicing for a long time. Twenty-four years, to be exact.

I shared Calli’s aspirations for a while. We discussed lyrics and songwriting and dreams that never, ever die.

But thoughts shift over time.

I still dream big…far too big for my own good. Singing has become less important, though. Now I’m a one-trick pony. My novels consume me, snatching every spare moment. They infiltrate my thoughts, my comments, my decisions.

A female voice announces our arrival at Embarcadero. I fly through the doors, bursting into a city that came highly-recommended. My phone beeps, informing me I have a text from Calli.

Driving to airport now-see you soon! Can’t believe this is real!

Trolleys coast up the streets, climbing these hills as though it’s no trouble at all. People walk by in jeans and scarves. I exhale slowly, curious to find out if it’s cold enough to see my breath. It isn’t.

Travel safe, I text my friend in Phoenix. Here’s to dreams…