San Francisco

1. Make plans to go to Goa, India for Contact Improvisation festival

2. Tear meniscus in Oakland the night before flight

Yes, I tore my meniscus last night at Oakland Dance. I was the tree, my roommate was the monkey, it got messy.

Searing pain, FOMO, anger, embarrassment, ambivalence, acceptance, even amusement and curiosity. The last 20 hours have been a journey.

Don’t comment with “sorry.” It’s not a bummer so much as a rough detour. A detour to who knows where. Aren’t those the best?

I get a sudden text from my airline today. My flight tonight will be delayed, and I have the option to reschedule it for free. The vortex is laughing with me.

And so another couple of days to enjoy home. From here I’ll spend two weeks in Barcelona eating tapas, admiring the mad genuis of Antonio Gaudi, and watching my best friend Dan get married to his partner Max.

If my plan works out, I’ll continue my yearly tradition of skinny dipping in a large body of water every winter solstice.

From Barcelona I’ll continue to India where I may or may not do some contact improvisation.

The scene during my last couple of days in the Bay is quintessential San Francisco. I sit outside Gus’s Market on Harrison and 17th, and I watch:

A man who looks like the Brawny guy, beard and flannel intact, emerges from the market clutching a 12-pack of 7th Generation toilet paper.

A man sits on a parked three-wheel motorscooter, eating dinner while having a very loud conversation on speakerphone.

An employee from Gus’ empties the overflowing compost bin, from which salad containers are overflowing and strewn around like balsamic confetti.

Finishing my own salad, I crumple the box into a tiny, compact shape before putting it into the now-empty compost bin. I hope the guy on the scooter notices and learns from my example.

A block away on Treat Avenue, a homeless man in his 70s pilfers items from a broken Audi window before strolling off languidly with a smile.

An utterly outlandish prostitute walks a mountain bike to the gas station on the corner of 17th and Potrero, filling its rear tire with air.

Beautiful couples walk down Mariposa Street, climbing shoes dangling from their backpacks.

It’s a crisp December sunset, and the sky is a soft palette of warm colors.

Bicycles. Tooting car horns. Twinkling lights of delivery trucks. The three-wheeled scooter guy now talking to himself.