It’s unclear why or what drives me to want to get out these mornings. At least I am wondering. Jane departs early to help her daughter with the stresses of recent motherhood. And somehow getting out blunts the effect of being alone. What’s wrong with being alone? Nothing, except that the experience triggers various memories. So I don’t go there. Where I do go is down the hill to Cup, my current neighborhood hangout. Where I am currently stuck in a sort of rut vis-à-vis avocado toast. The proprietor has learned to start my cappuccino as soon I roll in his door. Congenial. The Hispanic owners…they hail from Nicaragua…create a pleasant atmosphere. The clientele includes a congenial mix of Spanish and English-speaking people. I read what I can of the New York Times, my intake being limited by the physical challenge of newspaper pages. So instead of reading all the news that fits…I read whatever fits on the front page.

I sit outside on this morning. The weather, and the day, both are in transition. One gets used to San Francisco summer mornings, which turn into summer days…fog hanging gray and low. The breeze cold and maritime. August. But this day is just bursting with meteorological promise. In Sacramento, 100 miles to the east, there is a warning of 108 Fahrenheit. I heed that warning. I am dressed in a wool jacket but have every intention of removing it later. I watch the sky. The sky watches me. I eat my avocado toast, half an hour passes, the cappuccino level drops. It is time.… The latter waits for no man. I start down the familiar route, past the subway station and up the hill. But before getting there, something else takes over.

Above me, sun is breaking through just over the curving cliff dubbed Diamond Heights. Which in turn, it is really a canyon edge, one of the ravines of Twin Peaks. What lies before me is not only blue but downright picturesque. San Francisco, city of slopes, home of cliffdwellers. And there it is, the urbanscape, old and new. But mostly new, in any historical sense. And it’s all hanging and ascending and enclosing. People looking out those windows must see the Pacific Ocean, three miles to the west. On a day like this…or as this day promises to be…they can see the Farralons, Islands just off the coast.

San Francisco happens outside. Nevermind that the weather tends to drive its inhabitants inside. Remember, it’s a small city. What happens here isn’t necessarily the commerce…although at this moment there is an awful lot of that…or even the culture. The latter getting squeezed out by the former. No, it’s often about the views. Or the promise of the views. Because even when you can’t see it, the Bay makes itself known. One feels its winds. And on virtually any casual drive one sees its actual waters. Nothing is very far. Including the maritime surroundings.

So for once, I don’t speed home. I pause my wheelchair at the crest and gaze appreciatively. Women walk by me, young and corporate, chatting about business and heading for the company bus stop at the subway station. A Genentech coach emerges from the motorway. A Google coach follows. I am so glad not to be part of all this…and uncertain what my part is. Except old. And alive. And here.