TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
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On Saturday midnight, North Beach is a salacious uproar, a piss-drunk spectacle, all neon catcalls and roving eyes and long bare legs. Cars jam, horns jive and jazz, impatiently. Being a pedestrian is perilous on these sort of nights, when the driver's eye often trails tipsy after anything big and shiny. Yet we find refuge in a glass of cabernet and a plate of goulash with dumplings in euphonious Cafe Prague.
Afterward, we roam hills dark and still under lamplight. Fingers knotting his, stories of the City unfold in my head until we stumble, breath catching, onto a steep street stepped with courtyards, one by one, a stairwell verdant and fern, all ivy and flowers strange to city eyes. Benches await conversation, the grace of entwined lovers, meditation. On slender trees hang fragrant flowers, the shape of bells, ringing luminescent under a newly half moon.
What if cars no longer rumbled throughout the City? Would all the streets look like this?