And it smelled like summer, that green plant that covers California north of San Luis Obispo, that nameless (to me, anyhow) plant perfuming the air with a matchless dusky scent that is always the scent of sweat and hikes and look-who-forgot-their-canteen-again?
A tourist stumped me on Sutro’s money (silver! He made his fortunes in Nevada, but then again who didn’t?), and I didn’t stay as long as I liked, but spent plenty of time here when the Musee Mechanique used blue tarps to keep the rotting infrastructure off its delicate 19th century machinery, and the parking lot was dirt and in the trails you’d as likely find blackberries as little camp-outs among the hardier homeless population.
The new building? A wood-and-glass motif is just so—and I’d say that even if I didn’t have a friend who was operative in the process. What took me so long? It’s not so far, not far at all, just the end of the continent, where the world falls off and it’s all seal poop and sea spray. Really, should get out more.
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