San Francisco is hipsters, sure, and it's web nerds, sure, but it's also this.

San Francisco is kids in dinosaur costumes, a giant butterfly, the panaderia; it is drunk old native men swirling in doorways, stump-legs pushing his skateboard, the thousand-yard stare of the deathless bearded man serving you coffee; it is deep sunshine, light rain, fruits you don't know what they are, wrinkly salsa dancers, handpainted murals the size of a house, of somebody's house, telling the story of the labor revolution; it is stilt-walkers decked out in satin white dresses, everyone wearing an afro, it is rusty old flourishing signage, and aged Gloria Swanson deep in her cups. It is this.

And the Bay, and the hills, distillates of leisure, the islands, and the Headlands of Marin, which are hill fingers stroking the knuckles of the Ocean. And wine-yards, bright sailboats, Jerusalem artichokes, sea shanties, a windmill, and a long, shimmering, crusty damp BART ride to Berkeley. It is this.