grown-ups...

I guess this is what grown-ups do:  plan ahead on Friday, choose a gorgeous place to eat oysters and drink champagne for happy hour, arrive in Yerba Buena gardens in downtown SF as the sun settles below the skyscrapers.  Call friends-- nurses, doctors, entrepreneurs-- and revel in their intelligence and crass humor. This is what they do.  I know, because I got to play grown-up last night.  

This is the inside of B Bar.  It feels like you are floating in a garden amidst modern buildings and it is nothing but lovely and lovely on the inside.  And they have $1 dollar oysters (which I don't eat) and bottomless truffle-oil-infused fries (which I love, and ate plenty of). 

What isn't depicted is how later this same night, in NoPa, I was drinking Tecate from a can in a loud art bar, how we all squeezed into an old fashioned photo booth and smiled for the camera, how I kissed a Nigerian man, and danced with an Israeli, and exchanged witty remarks with a South African.  How the women are the doctors.  How the men seem lost.  How I gave my car keys to my adorable Chinese girlfriend and let the hospital security guard drive me home at 4am. How it felt to wake up this morning with the sun on my face and the promise of a sleepy day.  How my car is parked somewhere in the Fillmore today, and I don't really care (but should).

What you can't see in the pictures is my deep desire to be on a trail somewhere with lots of heavy gear on my back, maybe some sunlight filtering through mossy trees, maybe some waves glimpsed from a coastal ridge top, a distinct lack of humans, and the cooking of all meals on a small stove, beneath the dome of an unbroken sky.