Friday Night in San Francisco
Our weekend in San Francisco with Andrew’s dad started off on an exciting note for me: with a sighting of the San Francisco Twins. Friday night, Andrew and his dad headed off to a Giants game, and I took myself to dinner at my favorite restaurant in SF, the Nob Hill Café. (Last time I was in SF, Andrew and I ate there three times.) I was sitting at a small table, engrossed in my gnocchi and a book, when I heard some slight commotion to my left. When I looked up, I saw them: the San Francisco Twins, two tables away, happily posing for pictures.
The SF Twins, aka Marian and Vivian Brown, are 82-year-old twin sisters who live in the Nob Hill neighborhood; they’re famous in San Francisco for their jaunty identical getups. A quick Wikipedia search has informed me that they eat every meal together, have dressed identically their entire lives except for a brief time in their twenties, and have won prizes as “most identical” at international twin conventions. When I saw them on Friday, they were wearing leopard-spotted cowboy hats, red blazers with large sparkly star brooches on the right side, black skirts, and black sandals. Over the backs of their chairs were leopard-spotted coats. They clearly loved the attention they received from well-wishers and picture-takers. And they were clearly regulars—Beth and Nate saw them at the restaurant last time they were in SF, and I overheard the waitress say to one sister when her food arrived, holding her pepper-grinder at the ready, “One twist?”
Happy with my meal and with my sighting of the iconic SF sisters, I next headed to a small corner store to buy a bottle of water. As I selected my water, I overheard a brawny man talking loudly to the salesclerk. “Can I walk outside and pick vegetables for my meal? Can I go five minutes and slaughter my own lambs and pigs? No. And that’s why I don’t live in San Francisco.” I approached the counter as he went on to explain that he was in SF for a few days to help his buddy throw out a roommate. “The guy’s crazy,” he said. “This guy, Martin—absolutely nuts. My buddy needed backup.”
At the mention of “Martin,” the salesclerk began gesturing animatedly. “Martin?! Martin, from this neighborhood? He crazy! He really crazy! He come in here last week and he was all”—she gestured crazily to indicate a crazy person—“stressed out!”
I paid for my water and said “Good luck” to the man as I left. “Thanks, Sweetie,” he said.
Even happier now with my good meal, my SF Twins sighting, and this strange overheard conversation, I walked to Huntington Park as the sun went down. On the edge of the fountain in the center of the park, a man was trying to do a headstand. He was barefoot. A barefoot friend was helping him as another friend stood poised with a camera. The headstand was not a success. The friend then assumed a strange yoga-like pose on the ground in front of the fountain, her feet stretching back over her head, as the camera snapped. A man in a straw hat joined the group, also taking pictures. The poses and pictures continued. I couldn’t figure this out at all—these people were not very adept at their stunts; I could have done the things they were doing. They then began leaning over and putting their hands in the water, taking close-up pictures of…I’m not sure.
A fluffy white dog hopped up next to me on the bench, then dropped her ball into my lap. I threw it. The dog could not find it. The dog’s owner came to the rescue.
As I walked back to my hotel, I passed a group of teenagers on the corner. All of a sudden, one of them whipped off what appeared to be a long black jumpsuit, revealing a black miniskirt, a bright pink and yellow top, and silver knee-high boots. “Shake a leg!!” she shouted, and the group took off running.
All of this is why I miss a city.
The SF Twins, aka Marian and Vivian Brown, are 82-year-old twin sisters who live in the Nob Hill neighborhood; they’re famous in San Francisco for their jaunty identical getups. A quick Wikipedia search has informed me that they eat every meal together, have dressed identically their entire lives except for a brief time in their twenties, and have won prizes as “most identical” at international twin conventions. When I saw them on Friday, they were wearing leopard-spotted cowboy hats, red blazers with large sparkly star brooches on the right side, black skirts, and black sandals. Over the backs of their chairs were leopard-spotted coats. They clearly loved the attention they received from well-wishers and picture-takers. And they were clearly regulars—Beth and Nate saw them at the restaurant last time they were in SF, and I overheard the waitress say to one sister when her food arrived, holding her pepper-grinder at the ready, “One twist?”
Happy with my meal and with my sighting of the iconic SF sisters, I next headed to a small corner store to buy a bottle of water. As I selected my water, I overheard a brawny man talking loudly to the salesclerk. “Can I walk outside and pick vegetables for my meal? Can I go five minutes and slaughter my own lambs and pigs? No. And that’s why I don’t live in San Francisco.” I approached the counter as he went on to explain that he was in SF for a few days to help his buddy throw out a roommate. “The guy’s crazy,” he said. “This guy, Martin—absolutely nuts. My buddy needed backup.”
At the mention of “Martin,” the salesclerk began gesturing animatedly. “Martin?! Martin, from this neighborhood? He crazy! He really crazy! He come in here last week and he was all”—she gestured crazily to indicate a crazy person—“stressed out!”
I paid for my water and said “Good luck” to the man as I left. “Thanks, Sweetie,” he said.
Even happier now with my good meal, my SF Twins sighting, and this strange overheard conversation, I walked to Huntington Park as the sun went down. On the edge of the fountain in the center of the park, a man was trying to do a headstand. He was barefoot. A barefoot friend was helping him as another friend stood poised with a camera. The headstand was not a success. The friend then assumed a strange yoga-like pose on the ground in front of the fountain, her feet stretching back over her head, as the camera snapped. A man in a straw hat joined the group, also taking pictures. The poses and pictures continued. I couldn’t figure this out at all—these people were not very adept at their stunts; I could have done the things they were doing. They then began leaning over and putting their hands in the water, taking close-up pictures of…I’m not sure.
A fluffy white dog hopped up next to me on the bench, then dropped her ball into my lap. I threw it. The dog could not find it. The dog’s owner came to the rescue.
As I walked back to my hotel, I passed a group of teenagers on the corner. All of a sudden, one of them whipped off what appeared to be a long black jumpsuit, revealing a black miniskirt, a bright pink and yellow top, and silver knee-high boots. “Shake a leg!!” she shouted, and the group took off running.
All of this is why I miss a city.
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