I tried to be positive, but I really didn’t enjoy walking down Market Street this morning. I think there was one time I visited San Francisco and didn’t dislike it (this April) and I’m at a loss as to what made that special. This time, like every other, there’s been crowds of grumpy people, people pushing all their possessions in a shopping trolley, people baying at the sky, begging, standing staring at nothing, barefoot and dishevelled, and just a mass of people who appear somehow broken and uncared for, and me stumbling through it all.
When I’m tired I’m more prone to gloominess, and if you spent three hours waiting for a plane and then arrived in a not very nice hotel room and slept only fitfully, you also would be tired. I’m probably a little sick too, which would explain the spurt of blood from my right nostril as I rode back to the hotel this evening. I reached up to wipe my nose, drew it back with a streak of red along the length of my finger. I had planned to go climbing this evening, but the thought of not getting to the wall before 10pm rather put me off. I’ll try to drag myself there tomorrow morning and get an hour in, then return to the hotel and check out.
My day was okay, in the middle of all this, but at the same time I wondered if I needed to go all the way to San Francisco or if I could have dialled it in. So much of life is about showing up. But I’ll be awfully glad to be home tomorrow night, back with wife and family, and, I suppose, other frustrations like my daughters refusing to sleep.
So there’s always something. For now, to bed.