As I sit on my fire escape that presently masquerades as a private balcony overlooking the panhandle of Golden Gate Park, a somewhat sad rendition of “Lean on Me” floats up to my room from amateur trumpets and trombones down below. The sun shines down on me as I munch on a bunch of juicy green grapes. The uncovered top decks of tour buses are packed as they roll by every 15 minutes and the city’s visitors hastily pull out their cameras to snap photos of my temporary mansion-home. This is fall in San Francisco? I don’t believe it. The only signs of autumn are the slowly changing leaves on the trees across the street. I was warned many times to ditch the tank tops and flip flops for sweaters and scarves when I moved here. Yet here I am, enjoying the late afternoon warmth of a lazy Sunday outside in a t-shirt.
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