elizabethlevett

It’s hot. And around here that’s news.

A hot spell in this town is observed with approximately the same regularity as a drop in rents, a road that isn’t in need of repair, or a skinny bus driver. It’s just not something you see every day. When it does come, the natives all go native, gleefully pulling out their one pair of shorts, their one sundress, the congealed sunscreen they picked up last year, just in case. Naturally, with the new crowd it’s different. They’re ready. They step out in the most stylish new jumpsuits and the raddest sunglasses. (If raddest is even a word. If it is, it’s most certainly out of date.)

When it is hot, it’s so intense that all the flowers you greeted with such satisfaction after the rains finally let up are suddenly all drooped over, their leaves miserably yellowed, the soil around them hard as concrete. The air is still so everyone opens all their windows in the evening with the hope of letting in any breath of breeze that might stir things up. It’s too hot to cook. For me, this calls for salad. For my neighbors, it inevitably means a barbecue. So I end up lying in bed, barely covered up and smelling lighter fluid and burning grease, dreaming I might hear a foghorn in the distance.

Temperatures rise. Tempers flare. Opinions differ.

On a hot afternoon the last thing I want to do is go outside and move. But I promised myself. Summer means exercise. Summer means a 2-month opportunity to do something with this gut, these sags. Okay, so I put on my sneaks and head out for a long walk in the park. My park. Golden Gate Park. I’ve lived on its leafy border for nearly thirty years. So much to love. The cypress trees rise up against a sky of incredible blue and the conservatory sits ladylike, a grand dame in white. The park is crowded as it seems everyone had the same idea. Polite tourists order their hot dogs and little kids chase frisbees down grassy slopes. All is right with the world.

So what’s my problem? Why does it get me down that, on such a glorious day so many people are standing around, mute and solitary as telephone poles in the desert, staring into their phones? And what’s with those electric scooters? These guys certainly seem young enough to walk for miles! And dang it all, another Lyft driver pulls over right in front of me and into the crosswalk to pick up his lanky fare. Dude, I’m walking here! Just bugs me.

Kettles boil over. Hemlines rise. Arches fall. Thousands flee.

I’ve always loved the park for picnics. Sometimes we bring our instruments and play and sing our songs for our friends. In the past, people would stop and hang out (young people!) and listen. It was wonderful. Last time we played though, nobody noticed. Nobody stopped. Funny thing. Seems you don’t hear the band when you’re ears are otherwise occupied. (Earbuds.)

Okay, so I stop and stretch a bit at the wonderful, ancient, concrete overpass at Eighth Ave. Little kids are having a blast on the play structure. Folks are walking toward the museum or taking pictures in the rose garden. I turn around and begin the walk toward the fuchsia dell and home. It’s always so peaceful there. The venerable oaks are just over the hill – great climbing trees as I remember. There are little green benches. (I love that they’re always that color.) Tall cypress trees rise over the nodding fuchsias and the grass is green and cool.

Now, I don’t want to sound even more intolerant. But this place I’ve always known as peaceful suddenly isn’t a peaceful place at all. Just ahead on the right, where I used to always spot varied thrushes in the winter and squirrels competing with stellar jays over acorns, are four young guys in shorts. They’re all standing around holding red “party cups.” One of the guys lies down on a blanket. “Dude, I’m wasted.” One of the other guys (whose name is Dude, just like the Lyft driver) says, “That’s what we’re here for man! Till we pass out or black out!” Come on, it’s only three in the afternoon. I guess I’ll walk a little faster.

Desperate kitten makes daring fire escape!

Keep walking. Keep looking. Keep open. Stop judging. Breathe. Let it go.

Almost at the end of the walk there’s a little green bench in a circle of trees. On the bench sit a man and a woman. He is playing a guitar. She is playing a violin. I’m not wearing earbuds. I stop. It’s shady and there’s a soft breeze just beginning to sashay through the leaves. It’s so beautiful. It isn’t that I’ve stumbled across the reincarnated souls of Stephane Grappelli and Django Reinhardt whipping up a hot swing number beneath the rhododendrons. It’s not a Clair de Lune or even a Bach Air. It’s just a simple little piece that somehow lifts easily and glides along back and forth between the players. Time stops for just a little while and there is nothing to intrude, nothing to jar or jolt this warm, waning afternoon. Once again the birds can come out of hiding, the dragonflies can set an easy course through the oaks. Once again the park feels like the park always used to feel and once again all is right with the world. I can just see the headlines…

Gold discovered in California!