A foggy morning spent in search of coffee and cinnamon rolls transitioned into a sunny day of feather kicking. In the evening, we watched Amelie in Washington Square Park with hundreds of San Franciscans. The fogged rolled in again, bringing with it bone chilling cold.
The bush the blocked a doorway.
Woman in the fog.
Another woman in the fog.
X’s mark uneven pavement.
The old Alexandria Theater.
Dog waiting for owner.
Reunited, the pup and lady walk past a man reading a paper on a city bike.
The poor tourists crossing the bridge seemed to have the only fog in the city.
More bay windows.
An alley in North Beach.
Golden Boy Pizza before the movie.
An assortment of junk.
While always quick to call Mark Twain a liar, I finally have to agree:
“The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”