The kid and I traveled all the way to downtown San Francisco today, to a sandwich place near the Embarcadero, where I met up with three old work friends for lunch. My husband also came; he ended up caring for our little bundle of energy most of the time we were there. The little fellow was so eager to explore that he almost headed out the door on his own; the two of them went for a walk near the Bay, otherwise Little Guy would have been bouncing around in our restaurant like a pinball.
We were blessed with dazzling spring weather--just a touch of a breeze in the air, mid-sixties, glorious sunshine. I was struck by how sharply attired most people were--not just compared to me (I was dressed in my usual stay-at-home-mom fatigues--sloppy shirt, jeans and food-encrusted fleece jacket), but compared to people in every other part of San Francisco. We score high as a city, if scruffiness is a valid fashion statement. But people in the Financial District walk to the beat of a different drummer--a drummer working in an elegant nightclub, it would seem. Be that as it may--the little one was not checking out the fashion statements, he was checking out garbage cans and lampposts, according to my husband. More about that tomorrow.
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