the day we spent in vancouver was rainy —not the sort of downpour that holes you up at home nor one that forces you to avoid eye contact and stare at your feet as you trek. no, it was a rain that splashed in your eyes and lightly tapped you on the shoulder like an old friend, reminding you that, at this moment, you are alive.
yesterday was beautiful. blue skies and trotting dogs and bittersweet chocolate ice cream in pre-sealed cups on paddle boats in man-made lakes that would make any deity proud. and tall cans of modelo and drizzy on the radio and the top down in the swaggen and squash tacos and damn good whiskey and a pack of 27s that always disappears faster when your friends are around —but you wouldn’t want it any other way. and dinner with beautiful waitresses and hostesses and long walks from cole valley, up market street, overlooking the city, the beautiful, beautiful city that shines at night like a fucking beacon, like a sun, like a warm hug from mom. and long-winded advice from an old scottish woman: “avoid trouble. except for girl trouble.”
and that game of cheers governor and the intermittent smoke breaks always comprised of different crews of people. and the conversations —the fucking conversations— about sex and why it scares us and why we love it and gentrification and why the city I love is being botox’d, nipped and tucked like an aging celebrity clinging on to shreds of the past. only this city will always be young and beautiful.
and the music at el rio and the patio, lit up by deftly strung fluorescent lights woven into the trees, transporting all patrons — a winter night in the mission became a midsummer’s night dream.
and I’m pretty sure I fell in love.
my sister told me that we’re all a little bit in love with each of our best friends and I’m fucking head over heels for these people and nothing I would have done yesterday would have mattered if they weren’t right there with me.