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Foggy Nights
Jun. 22nd, 2006 10:04 pmMy parents live in San Francisco's Lake District, on the top floor of a condo that looks like it's peering off the north side of the peninsula and comtemplating doing a gainer into the chilly waters of the Pacific. From there, on clear days, they have a spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Marin headlands. I am visiting them now, and I like to spend the early evening sitting in their dining room and looking out their big windows while sipping on gin and tonics. It's a good way to spend an hour or so.
But: the finger of the peninsula exposes San Francisco to the constant cool of the sea. Temperatures drop rapidly here when the sun goes down, while the bayward side stays warm longer. The result is fog -- dense, wet and fast-moving. From my parents' house, the advance of the tendrilled wall of fog towards the bridge resembles Gojira wading implacably into the Bay, intent on destroying the works of Man. And as the fog sweeps over me and the foghorns begin to bay mournfully in the sudden whiteout, I think of elephantine monstrosities calling to each other in the night as they stalk the coastline looking for persons unwise or unlucky enough to have been caught out of doors.
It is now that this place is mysterious and romantic. This is the San Francisco of hard-boiled detective fiction, where everything is slightly unreal, and for all we know, only two blocks away terrible or wonderful things are transpiring that are invisible behind a curtain of mist.
It is now that I miss my sweetheart -- now, when the last lights are faded, and all I can see out the big dining room windows are miasma and darkness. Times like these are made for the companionship of lovers, to savor the romance of the foggy lightless city, and enjoy the cries of foghorn monsters stalking their prey in the night.
She will join me soon, and we will drive to sun-drenched places that have never known fog. Those will be special times, I am sure. But I wish she could share this moment with me, looking out into the foggy San Francisco night, when there's nothing to see but somebody to enjoy the nothingness with.
But: the finger of the peninsula exposes San Francisco to the constant cool of the sea. Temperatures drop rapidly here when the sun goes down, while the bayward side stays warm longer. The result is fog -- dense, wet and fast-moving. From my parents' house, the advance of the tendrilled wall of fog towards the bridge resembles Gojira wading implacably into the Bay, intent on destroying the works of Man. And as the fog sweeps over me and the foghorns begin to bay mournfully in the sudden whiteout, I think of elephantine monstrosities calling to each other in the night as they stalk the coastline looking for persons unwise or unlucky enough to have been caught out of doors.
It is now that this place is mysterious and romantic. This is the San Francisco of hard-boiled detective fiction, where everything is slightly unreal, and for all we know, only two blocks away terrible or wonderful things are transpiring that are invisible behind a curtain of mist.
It is now that I miss my sweetheart -- now, when the last lights are faded, and all I can see out the big dining room windows are miasma and darkness. Times like these are made for the companionship of lovers, to savor the romance of the foggy lightless city, and enjoy the cries of foghorn monsters stalking their prey in the night.
She will join me soon, and we will drive to sun-drenched places that have never known fog. Those will be special times, I am sure. But I wish she could share this moment with me, looking out into the foggy San Francisco night, when there's nothing to see but somebody to enjoy the nothingness with.
