The Memory Of All That
Almost exactly eight months ago, during one of The Most Perfect San Francisco Days Ever, a fellow blogger and I stumbled upon a tunnel in Golden Gate Park that should have the word “Bose” above it. That day was warm and sunny, one of those June days that makes July all the harder to understand.
When today dawned, blue and clear for the second or third day in a row after too many gray and rainy days, and after too many sedentary days studying in windowless conference rooms, I grabbed my iPod, my camera, a grande non-fat chai, and headed for the park. I should’ve been running the 5k (well, the half-marathon, really, but that wasn’t going to happen) or I should’ve been in class. Instead – I ensured that February included at least one walk in the park (the bar exam probably won’t be).
I strolled past the new deYoung Museum which, despite it’s hulking, metallic exterior, felt warm and steady in the brisk late morning air. I still haven’t been inside – but the outside is art and is surrounded by art enough to tide me over.
Looping back down JFK Dr., I walked up and around the Conservatory of Flowers – one of the most hopelessly romantic buildings in the city, if not the state.
Recalling the summer’s tunnel music, and having packed my own to relive the experience, I walked down the path toward the gates. I never expected, however, that while shuffling my play list, I’d hear the familiar strains of free range jazz emanating from the tunnel again.
“They Can’t Take That Away From Me” stopped me in my tracks. Trust me, you have heard no sound like the sound these musicians make. Their spirit is high. The acoustics are perfect. And the park is, well, it’s the park, and altogether, it’s just one of the things that makes life bearable, even enjoyable.
The saxophonist said there’s someone around most weekends. I’d try Sundays around 11:30 or noon.
Treat yourself. Find you center. Take some tip money. And go listen.