A Comfy Blanket of Fog

This morning, I stepped outside and noticed the blanket of fog. It was dense and Bay Area-sized. Usually, if one drives a mile or two in any given direction, one reaches an edge of the blanket, an invisible line where fog and clear sky meet. I drove six miles and never reached an edge. I took the train another thirty miles and remained under the covers. After traveling so far, I decided to walk two more miles, partly to see if the fog would end, but mostly because I had to show up for work.

I know I'm repeating myself, but I love the fog. Driving through it isn't fun, but it's fun to walk through, especially downtown. On a clear day, looking down Santa Clara Street, there are high-rises, automobiles and traffic lights as far as the eye can see. The scene has no modesty. Everything is exposed. On a day such as today, the world remains hidden, wrapped in a layer of gray. With each footstep, it reveals itself slowly. Spooky shadows become colorful (and hopefully harmless) people and objects. Lighted store signs act as beacons along a coast of buildings, guiding one to safe harbor (a.k.a. a cafe for a cup of eggnog latte).

The fog hasn't lifted and I hope it doesn't for a while. It would be exciting to revel in it during lunch, before the afternoon sun burns through it.