A Postcard Extra

Last night I walked home from the gym, my usual red-faced, sweaty self. As I waited for a green light on the corner across from my apartment, a French family surrounded me. The father was preoccupied with a map, the mother with taking pictures of City Hall, and the kids with pointing excitedly up at Alamo Square Park. The park does take on a bit of an ethereal quality close to sunset, with clouds sweeping in from the West and an orange skyline setting the dozens of circling planes a-twinkle. I routinely feel like a background figure in a postcard - it goes with my neighborhood's territory. Sometimes when I'm standing on my porch, I pretend I'm an animatronic waving at all the tourists. And to them, that's pretty much what I am. Trippy. Even so, there's something about being a living accessory to a glamorous location while still sweating from the gym that makes the situation even sweeter. "This is me" I picture myself saying to the tourists, hands on my hips, "and I am this San Francisco street. Go ahead. Snap away."