San Francisco is a lot of wonderful things…unless you’re a car. I parked in the one lone spot by my apartment waaaay up on Telegraph Hill. What a “get!” My lucky day. Or so I thought. I left it overnight and woke up to a newly planted sign that said it was illegal to park there. And it was gone. Towed by the SFP.
Fitting result, actually. I’ve already hit the side of a bus, grazed 100 curbs and scraped my undercarriage on the bottom of hills that made my heart lurch into my throat.
So, if you’re coming to the City by the Bay, take a cab. Walk. Figure out the flat routes for your bike (there’s an app for that by the way.) But give your car a reprieve. Find a garage and leave it there. Lesson learned.
Like the weather… What a fool I was to bring my shorts. Rookie move Steffan. SF is just too fickle to be caught with your knees exposed.
San Francisco is that funky girl who looks beautiful as hell one day and a miserable wretch the next. She’s curvy, hilly and intoxicating and definitely capable of stealing your heart. But her sunny disposition goes clammy in an instant. She’ll make you shiver. Today was sunny and warm. Tomorrow who knows?
San Francisco. It’ll take more than goose bumps and a banged up car to break my awe of you. You’re a diva but I’m game.