I wonder, amid all these storms and destruction, has anyone noticed how amazing San Francisco has become today?
At this point, a saxophone enters and gently outlines the melody from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg in the smoky dimness of a jazz club.
There was moaning and whipping. Trees were falling, cars overturned. It was as if I had brought some hurricanes from Florida to California, which only made it here in the winter… Destruction, flooding, power outages, yet downtown seems calm and peaceful… It’s just water pouring from the sky in streams, as if the clouds decided to laugh at people and open the garden hose.
Shiny roads, wet people, faces contorted in mimicry from cold water streams, puddle splashes from passing cars, awkwardly falling into the ruts and raising columns of water to human height. Fallen trees all around the bay. Collapsed ceilings, closed bridges, halted traffic…
And in the midst of all this chaos, umbrellas. No, not the ones people tried in vain to use as shelter from the rampaging elements… but those that suddenly and quickly served their purpose in the service of human dryness… Black umbrellas, red umbrellas, umbrellas with their “skin” completely torn off, umbrellas that at first glance seemed decent but lay abandoned on the side of Mission street… A bright pink umbrella with broken spokes in a puddle on Howard, a black umbrella abandoned on the first street, its handle bent—probably out of frustration… Umbrellas, like tear-stained handkerchiefs of the roaring storm in San Francisco…
On Fremont, I passed a woman who, like a mother with helpless wet kittens, had gathered several abandoned umbrellas around her and opened them all, as if she were supporting them, as if to say they were still beautiful, reliable, desired… As I passed by, I said, “They’re all yours!” She looked at me with hope and replied, as if wishing me happiness: “You need an umbrella!” I said, “No, thank you, I’m already at my destination!” and walked on, immediately regretting not taking one of her colorful pets. She was simply trying to save them. But it was already too late.
Today, in San Francisco, several thousand umbrellas died. But the storm is over. Tomorrow will be a new day. And new umbrellas will see the light.
It’s winter in San Francisco. Long live the umbrellas!