November 27, 2005
In which I revel in being contrary; Or, Turk and Hyde
I appreciate the bustle of the (big) city as much as the next condo-dweller, but I especially like the quiet moments when the city sleeps. I revel in seeing which other lights are on, who is walking down the streets (insomniac joggers and groggy dog-owners, mostly, of a Sunday morning). In the interrgenum between the time that bars shut down and greasy-spoons open, the newspapers noisily arrive, thumping on stoops whacking against iron gates. Between last call and day-break, city crews patrol the streets, picking up trash from the night before. Between four and five this morning, a pile of old clothes and a cracked coffee maker appeared and disappeared from the corner. I even caught sight of a MUNI Owl bus service, ponderously making its way west'ards.
What shops are open in the early hours? Nothing, in this neighbourhood: the grates drawn across the windows belie the bright neon signs and wheezing air conditioners of the bodega across the street. A few blocks and a few hours away, the café-owner, clad in a beret and crisp blue shirt, shakes his head and says, "I never thought that anyone will be here first thing on a week-end, but you always are!". The croissants are still warm from the bakery, and the espresso machine is yet warming up.
I have never seen the corner of Turk and Hyde as cheery as in this photograph of Felipe Dulzaides's "incidental vista", part of the Double Take installation art project.