A San Francisco Sunday (Hungover)

The sun hit San Francisco just right today. And despite my hangover and inevitable realization that I'm getting older and can't handle having seven beverages in one night, downing beers after vodka tonics, after vodka tonics, after more vodka tonics, I was able to revel in the joy of a San Francisco Sunday. A few weeks ago at Dolores Park my friends and I listened to a man sitting under a tree playing his guitar, singing, fondling a harmonica. We sang along to his songs, closed our eyes for a moment, and let his music take us away, cheering him on as he rolled a joint. He told us that he came to this spot often just to play and sing for whoever was willing to listen. I headed to Dolores Park today, hoping to find this same man under the same tree playing his guitar,  hoping to ease my hangover with the sweet sound of his music. And among the half naked bodies, the dogs running around with sticks in their mouths, people guzzling champagne out of bottles, the jugglers, bums, and little children, the grass a field of happy bodies, I found him under the same tree. He sang some Gillian Welch, Elliot Smith, a few Beatles songs, I clapped for him so he knew I was listening, that someone was willing to listen. He uncorked a bottle of red wine, poured himself a glass, lifted it to the sky, praising the city, the sun, the people around him it seemed. And then I closed my eyes, let the sun soak up my aching body, swore to myself I'd never drink again.