America’s birthday was a sunny day in San Francisco.
Boyfriend and I came out of our apartment by the bay, our empty stomachs grumbling. The noontime sun bared down at us. We inched towards the Ferry building.
At the building we got Japanese food: miso soup and curry beef. Yes we ate Asian food on America’s birthday; the city’s culinary options abound. On this day people crowded along the water. We ate on the benches with the dishes on our laps, our heads bent like monks in prayer.
We headed towards Pier 39 along the Embarcadero street. A dozen nude male cyclists stood around the corner, sunbathing in helmets, shoes, and sunscreen. They smiled and basked in their sunlit glory. I ogled through my sunglasses, happy with the happenstance.
Along the Embarcadero Harley Davidsons roared; black, orange, and green ones flew by. Their riders sat low; their hair floated like Beyonce’s.
At Pier 39 the sea lions were missing. Boyfriend googled their whereabouts; during July they were away breeding. I miss their loud and smelly presence and yearn for their return.
Throughout the afternoon we heard fireworks, and the drama intensified when the evening came. The fireworks streaked the sky, splattering yellow, green, and red on the dark canvas. We enjoyed the sights. Our furry friends lost the control over their bowels.
T’was a glorious day in the city by the bay.
Happy birthday America.