The San Francisco waterfront was still gray from the early-morning
summer fog. For the second time in two weeks I’d visited this very spot
with my camera. The waterfront seemed different on this day. As I looked
deep into the bay, the reflections danced with a darkness that I found
compelling. Mostly amorphous, they changed as we came up adjacent to the
San Francisco Bay Bridge. These long, linear reflections made me stop
in my tracks. The bridge has become familiar after ten thousand visits
to this waterfront, seaming nothing like it did the first time I laid
eyes on it some thirty years ago. Back then the sight of the bridge made
me gasp, now it brought a faint smile and a deep breath of gratitude.
Three weeks in Venice is hardly a long time. But, at the start it felt that way. I fooled myself with the illusion was that I'd be there forever—that I was there for good. But, three days later I found myself counting. I was secretly counting the days until the arrival of my sad departure. I shook this diabolical countdown off with a shudder. But, it didn't work. The little clock continued ticking away in my brain and then chimed in again the very next morning.
On the ferry ride into San Francisco I could hardly contain myself. The morning air was brisk and the low light golden as I ran from side to side in the boat, searching for the best photos to make. I must have driven the other, more placid passengers crazy as I walked past them a hundred times. There was simply too much to see. The day and my disposition were fresh and I was getting overstimulated.
