Journey to the west coast

Picture, if you will, yourself. You stand atop a concrete hill, looking down on the city below as you wipe the sweat off your brow. You take in the smell of marijuana and give thanks to the local pot-heads as you enjoy the brief respite from the scent of dog poo. You admire the colour of a local girl’s hair as you relax to the sound of blaring car horns. You’ve just climbed three blocks of hill at a sixty five degree angle. The next two blocks are even steeper. Take a deep breath, because here we go. This is San Francisco.
The streets here are forever bustling with souls from every walk of life, every creed, and every culture. The business men in their suits rocket down-hill on skate boards. The city is beautiful, healthy, and tinged with the smell of cigarette smoke. This city is chaos and harmony locked in a fiery tango, and there isn’t a single soul that isn’t entranced by their movements.
Whether it’s sunny or cloudy, this city is beautiful in any weather. Some of the most beautiful days in this city are the foggy ones; the days when the fog just kisses the tops of the buildings. The lights of the buildings show just through their shrouds, enchanting all who see. I like to think that it’s the smoke from all the cigarettes people burn, hanging eerily in the sky.
Should you find yourself on one of the higher hills of the city at night, you can prepare yourself for a breathtaking view, as the city lights up bright enough to make any Christmas tree green(er) with envy. The drunks are dancing, the homeless are singing, and the freaks have emerged from their over-priced one bedroom apartments to play. On weekends one can observe the awe-inspiring migration of females on their way to a local club or bar. Not far behind them are males, stalking silently with laser-focused eyes locked onto their intended prey. Perhaps, if they try hard and believe in themselves, they may catch the eye of a female long enough to lure her back to their cramped and terribly expensive den for the night.
When it’s time to settle down and rest, the wild creatures of the street will crawl back into their un-reasonably priced apartments and curl up and brace themselves for the hang-over sure to plague them the next morning. The tourists retreat to their beautifully decorated hotels, wallets sore from a long day of not being told that nobody really rides the tourist-trap trolley. Tomorrow will bring more wonder, more memories, and more hobos. Such is life. Such is San Francisco.