Untitled, San Francisco, April 2009.
Could there be happier people on earth than tourists?
San Francisco's temperate climate ensnares tourists all year round, these shiny happy people whose respite from labor seems to lift all their burdens and make them light as air. They hop on our commuter trains and cable cars as if they are boarding carnival rides, consume all our city's salt water taffy, and flutter about our streets with fingers pointed, befuddled but happy.
As we hapless locals scurry to our nine-to-fives, they rub against us, happy. In our little cubicles, we stare at yesterday's spreadsheet wishing we could escape from these inappropriately happy people. Perhaps to Barcelona, with a cold pitcher of sangria and a big plate of Iberian ham, reading The Rough Guide, and thinking about Gaudi.
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