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TRAIN OF THOUGHT Derek and I spent a little while wandering through the Mission this afternoon, taking a few photos and feeling like tourists in our own city. Or at least, I did. The tourist part? The mission is oodles more hip than Cole Valley. While we might be the gateway to the Upper Haight or rather, the land where the 60s, 70s and 80s will never, ever die, our few small blocks are filled with those who are more concerned with keeping the fog at baby with sensible garments than working our way up the best dressed lists. Speaking of sensible garments, while wandering I spied a lovely long down coat and I could hear my mother's approving voice in my ear: "Lovely, darling... it covers your kidneys." The hem of every coat I wore as a child fell well below my derriere, ensuring the health of my kidneys through the wickedest of Canadian winters.  Winter in San Francisco is another matter entirely, and I do my best to wear flip flops during the Christmas holidays at least once. I don't feel guilty at all, having endured years of subzero temperatures in the time before microfibers. I’m trying very hard not to drift into codger talk…. “Kids today don’t know how easy they have it. In my day we had to make do with scratchy wool socks in our skates.” Damp wools socks. There’s something wonderful. Actually, I’ve worked through much of my childhood angst given that a small damp dog (something we experience with all too much regularity between the months of November and March) smells very much like a wet, wooly sweater (or socks). It was a gloriously sunny day, one of few that we’ll experience until spring. My mind was far from wet, wooly socks. Until now. 11/ 5/2006
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