Good Sunday morning

It is not like everyday that I get to wake up, drink a cup of tea with the sunlight pouring in from my window onto my table. This morning had to be one, so I have decided.

One of my favorite pictorial fragments of San Francisco is the oily green lemon tree leaves offsetting the golden lemons, standing in front of the backdrop of the blue San Franciscan sky. But one of my most cherished experience in San Francisco comes from exactly a week ago.

Last Sunday morning was a chilly and gloomy one. The fog that accumulated during the night has not yet cleared up. It was nearly 10:30 AM, and I went to wait at the bus stop for the bus that was to take me to church, where I was to visit for the first time. The route was, of course, one that I had never taken before also.

The bus arrived exactly on time. I got on the bus, took a seat by the window. The route was not exactly the most scenic one, but it was warmly quiet and peaceful. Down the winding road, it was obvious that we were journeying on a hill, that sometimes through the gap between two houses I can see the valley. I don’t remember when it first caught my eyes but a charming Tudor house appeared for the brief minute or two I could muster while the bus drove by, and the next thing I new more houses of the Italian style started to emerge. The cobble steps, the flowers and the windows that seemed to lead into intriguing secrets from each households, I knew I was not in San Francisco, I was not in 2012, and I was not on a bus. The mist flowed around, houses kept appearing and disappearing, and yet time was suspended. A beautiful fountain was there, in the middle of a road. Our carriage had to go around it. I could hear the giggles from the girls from Jane Austin’s novels, I could see the English garden just 10min walk away. It was all misty, and still.

As we reached the end of the road, I saw a muni car waiting on the other road we were reaching. No, we were on a bus not a carriage afterall. But was it real? I was for a brief moment transported to a completely different reality. All came about from nowhere, with no expectations.

I felt so satisfied. A feast of beauty.

Later on I looked up the neighborhood I went through, it was called “St.Francis Wood”. But it didn’t matter what it was called. Or to what fame an renown it associated itself. It was a moment of unexpected wonder that unfurled itself onto my experience, serendipity to the fullest extent.

And that’s what life is about, isn’t it?

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