All hoodies all the time. SF is burrific.

The sun is sneaking away on this January day, bathing lower Clement St buildings in a dusty orange. The last rays are hitting the steam and dancing above my Earle Grey tea and the string has spun itself around my spoon as I dip the tea bag in and out. I'm lost in thought while staring out the window from the Blue Danube coffee house.

As we have come to expect it, the late afternoon wind has picked up from the north west, blowing around errant newspapers and neglected napkins left on outside cafe tables.  Taking tourists by surprise, these chilly breezes are the driving sales force behind the invisible campaign to send every traveler home with an over sized sweat shirt or hoodie embroidered with the SF. logo below the upper right shoulder, the one with the abbreviated Golden Gate bridge. This chilly wind catches everyone by surprise. It can be warm as toast, then suddenly it blows in off the bay. A wind that makes you grimace and walk a little faster. Dogs leashes are tugged before they've had a chance to sniff out the daily news, the cafes empty out of Laptop commuters and there is a sense of anticipation in the air, like that of a stage curtain drop for intermission.

When the air is chilled in SF. a wave of denial takes hold. When the temp drops below 58f the denial holds strong. Men leave the jacket unzipped and young women proud of their figure prefer the arms crossed method of staying warm. It's allowable to whine a little bit over the chill as a little drama attracts attention, which also apparently has a warming affect. But this cool temperature will not affect the evening's plans of standing in line, outside of a night club in the Mission district for 45 minutes past the the bouncer's promise.

The clubs in SF. are opulently adorned. Beautiful lighting and furnishings, plush velvety window treatments reclaimed wood bars, something old and something new. Crowded and loud enough to drown out limp jokes and lame passes. Drinks are mixed with ritualistic intention, behind the bar there's a blur of colourful bottles and shapely glasses being passed to thirsty patrons. Money is exchanged in frenzied flow. Bar tenders pace the mats like lions in a zoo cage at feeding time. Smokers huddle in doorways, perfume wages a war over fresh air. Every lounge or club has it's own distinction and each draws a following with cult-ish allure.