This morning a woman asked if she could take the picture of the cityscape from Alamo Square for me so that I could be in the picture. I had dressed quickly, sloppily, comfortably, not exactly sure that I would stay dressed after I moved the car. I decided I didn’t care and handed her my phone.
“Where are you visiting from?” she asked, all smiles the way I’ve noticed most women walking through Alamo alone in the crispness of morning are.
I thought back to the first time anyone ever confused me for a San Franciscan. I was at a bar for happy hour, a bar I now know is only ever populated by out of town Opera-goers. That day, Chuch and I exchanged thrilled glances and nodded eagerly, “Yes, yes we’re from here” even though we hadn’t had the keys to our studio a week yet.
This morning, I was thrilled to be confused for a vacationer, eagerly taking in the spectacular view made even better with the slow sunrise. “Nowhere,” I said. “I live around the corner.”
She giggled conspiratorially. “I’ve never stopped taking pictures of this view either. I’ve lived here twenty-three years.”
Let’s all be wide-eyed forever.