Nightly walkabout

When I went to design school in Atlanta, I lived in a house with a wrap-around porch, complete with a swinging loveseat, a hammock, and rocking chairs. During the day, I was nearly always inside working or at school but when I wasn't, I hid from the unbearably strong sun like a naked mole rat, (Stella's favorite nocturnal animal.) Warm nights really work for me though. I passed many on that porch, listening to the bugs, and, when really lucky, savoring stray drops of rain from a passing storm.

Warm nights are far and few between in San Francisco. I spent one last year with Clare and Katherine, walking through Bernal's labyrinthian streets, up and over the hill, and down the Esmeralda slide to the Royal Cuckoo, or maybe it was El Rio.

As much fun as we had out that night, it's the walk I remember best. The seductive scent of the acacias in bloom, so rich and heavy, as though they're rotting before they've even begun, then the jasmin, and my favorite, clematis. Katherine, Claire and I were all heady before we'd even arrived at the bar.

Florida isn't as pungent, but it's got a flare for the dramatic that I can't resist; I dig the uplit palms, the fancy fountains, and the seriousness with which the intercoastal crowd decorates their lawns with bronze reproductions of Roman goddesses, crocodiles, and birds.

On my one evening walkabout this week, I reconnoitered with long lost friends like bougainvillea, potato vine, opossum, and even a raccoon. The hum of so many bugs was my constant companion.