In San Francisco, band morale was at its lowest. The air outside felt like Mordor. The air inside smelled like body odour, gasoline and insulation. When we arrived, we unloaded our gear and walked in search of food. “Let’s just walk up Mission,” one of us said after seeing tall buildings on the horizon. We walked, and walked, passed tall concrete buildings with no windows, saw no grass, couldn’t decide where to stop and eat. Fed up with indecisiveness we dragged our feet and fought over which direction to turn or not to turn. Feeling dejected, hungry, thirsty and frustrated, we head back the way we came to soundcheck. People didn’t speak unless spoken to. One of us asked a passerby “is there a park nearby?” No, there wasn’t.
After soundcheck we decided to split up. Little did we know, we were a mere two or three blocks from one of the coolest streets in San Francisco, walking parallel to it for the entirety of the grueling walk. Picture your first visit to Vancouver walking down the ugliest part of Clark St. It was then that I finally saw the city people identified with. The houses were beautiful, yet monotonous in their style. Matty, Charley and Sam explored Mission District while Gina and I took pictures by the Golden Gate bridge.
I really could have slapped a band made, you know, on that first walk. And if Charley tries to recycle that “flowers in your hair” joke one more time… thank goodness for the plethora of handsome gay men walking up and down Castro St.