Let it be known: I love San Francisco. The people are left and right, straight-up attractive, and the food is so divine that your palate reaches enlightenment three times a day. The drinks are strong and beer floods the pints of dive bars everywhere, getting you there and back like the best taxi ride of your life. I’ve sat in parks, on patios, bay side, bar side and on roof tops so high and glorious that all I could do was spin in circles, reliving the panorama rotation after rotation.
It’s been two weeks and then some. I could never leave, I think, if not for the dreams I dream of sundresses.
This isn’t an invented allegory. Before I fall asleep there’s a consistent scenario that flashes through my mind. It’s just me in a denim sundress and a little wicker boat hat. We’ve seen this outfit before. It’s a classic take on that summer-time girl, traipsing from garden to stream, unencumbered by norm or cares or cold, wind or jackets. It’s sunshine and warmth and fireflies, though I’ve never seen one before in my life. And while I live in a city that’s perfect at a perpetual 60 degrees, my unconsciousness schemes to remind me of summer.
And how terribly ironic, to flee Hawaii in part of the heat only to slumber of days in the sun. I roll my eyes at my dozing mind to betray me in such a way, though I understand that it’s the sudden lack of it that makes me crave the warmth.
While I insist my blood has thickened and that I love rewearing the two wool sweaters I own, I’ll simply have to bear with with those midnight reminders that may haps I miss the sun.
(But you know I just miss wearing sundresses, right?)