Pulling into San Francisco, it was hard to know whether the anticipation we felt in our bellies was the good, butterfly sort or the bad, knotted-up and twisty variety. On the one hand, the city was exciting and new and beaming with culture and life for us to explore. And on the other – San Fran was Greer’s last stop with 23 feet. She would board a plane and fly back to Colorado. Allie and I would continue up the coast.
We somehow got the okay to post up for a week in the parking lot of the Sports Basement right on the Marina, and woke up every morning to fog and damp and a postcard shot of the Golden Gate Bridge. We explored the city on our bicycles with only minimal harassment from the city drivers for lolly-gagging through the streets. We visited the wharf and Haight Ashbury and ate in restaurants. We wore pants and thick socks and our heaviest fleeces – in the middle of summer.
We also took the chance to plan for our next big move up the coast toward Oregon to search for the surfers that live for the big waves and freezing water. We had a tip about a woman surfer in Newport that we wanted to check out, and also some vague descriptions of a whole plethora of vagabonds in Eugene.
And on our last day, we woke early and drove Greer to the airport, where she boarded a plane back to sunny Durango. And then there were two. To Oregon…