I can hear it growing from a whisper to a cry, as the cat pushes his head to pop open the glass screen door.
It is the second day of the 2009 annual North Beach Festival.
It began with our efforts to get the cat blessed.
“I’m not blessing the cat. I’m not religious,” Mustacho said, his posture indicating a stance against all things holy water as if snot reigned upon you.
“How about just having him there to watch?” I slyly replied, trying to contort the cat into his harness. A harness he used to welcome, as he wailed to be let out the front door. Once we locked and closed the door, after dragging him across the threshold, he simply sat there and meowed.
What has happened to my brave gato? Then again, who would want to leave that apartment.
So we wandered on our own, a trafficked westbound Broadway and flooded sidewalks absorbing the eye as soon as we left our little nook street. North Beach was alive and well.
We bounced over to Grant Street, and as soon as we rounded it, after turning down peep show offers, were greeted by the jazz of The Saloon and the market flare blocking the street for a mile. An enormously tall silver sequined clad man, representing the unofficial mascot of the strange, a box like figure. We rushed into Saint Francis de Assisi church.
The church off Vallejo and Columbus, squeezed into the city block but was actually quite large. I’d often passed amateur photographers, pausing and disrupting the street flow to garner a photo. Its claims to fame? It’s a shrine today, amongst the first churches built in the city. It is not where Marilyn and Joe were so famously photographed – that was Saint Peter and Paul’s Church just up the street at Washington Square. It is named after a saint to guard over animals.
St. Francis de Assisi at 2 P.M. would be Blessing All Animals.
We walked into the high energy of a multi-legged audience. The priests and charity the event was sponsored for said their peace quickly, in order to move onto the blessing before anyone lost their bowels. It was joyous holy water sprinkled up and down the aisles, for little and big pups alike. The gato would have loved it.
Outside, the stands marketed standard tourist, San Francisco love fare, interesting hand made creations of cloth and home items, and a swamp of Festival visitors. Taking in our lively market, the German hat cobbling lady grimacing outside her door at the influx, the hula-hooping gallery store owner, and the many pups that wandered the maze. We turned down towards the Park, an amped up band and thousands streaming in and out of the park. Many were settled in, flowers in their hair and hot dogs in the hands, for the Cuban music blaring loud and proud aside Saint Peter’s.
“Do you have a cat?” We were handed two boxes of fine, prime gato food.
“Are you hungry?” A long line formed for colorful free fruit salads.
“Do you want a free San Francisco magazine?”
The city was handing me small treats all day. It seemed only right to give back, to stop for the best fudge in town.
“Let’s stop!” I cried, at the swing band, clad in WWII wardrobe, with multi generational partners swinging and hoop skirting it up in a dancing frenzy. I tapped and leapt my way home.
We chose to end our night away from the fair, the local music, art, and air. We took a jaunt to see the release of a film written by two local writing heroes, Dave Eggers and Vendela Vida. Away We Go was more than promising, simple, true and seemed to hang and stun something deep in an audience that couldn’t move until the last drop of credits hit the screen.
Today, a day later from my balcony, horns adorn the air, bagpipes of Irish music, blending with the string sets of Chinese medleys. It is so brightly blue too with rich white dots blended in to wistfully call away from the blue’s perfection and try to dance with it. The fudge goes so well with it all.
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