It’s February and I would really like to avoid mentioning the artificial, depression inducing “holiday” that’s approaching. Eventually someone will find a way to sue Hallmark for pain and suffering and we will be free. But until then, I’m just as sucked in as everyone else. Here’s my compromise: I’m going to tell you all about a classic romantic spot as trite as Valentine’s Day! Seriously, I’ve been taken here by so many men, promising me something unique, that I had to start feigning illness when I saw what direction the car was headed in. It’s called Fort Funston, it’s just a couple of miles away from the San Francisco Zoo and it’s astonishingly beautiful, really. Green and lush at the top, especially when it’s been raining like it has been, the view is breathtaking. There’s a very small hike to get to the actual beach, so your blood gets pumping a little. Then you stroll down the shore and find the cozy little caves to sit in. This place was made for romantics, they all find it and so I was introduced to it.
I have to tell you, though, I really liked it when I started going alone. Something about the cliff, the wind, some variables I know nothing about, make it a popular spot for hang-gliders to take off from. When I was being taken there for the purpose of being seduced, I never noticed that on a good day you can sit for hours and watch people fly. Depending on the day, it’s either a revelation of simplicity and ease contrasting our modern technological world, or else it’s a visual reminder of man’s inherently solitary path through life. Or it’s just nice. Nice in a subtle way I couldn’t notice while trying to analyze the intentions, and my feelings about the intentions, of whatever guy happened to be feigning casual ease next to me.
Take someone there if you want, I won’t hold it against you. But maybe forget something in the car that you just have to go back for, try out a few minutes of solitude. You’ll see that I’m right.