SoMa

Museums. Not one or two. Seven. On everything you could want to see, from modern to cartoon.

And five, six, se-ven eight! NO! Not just 8, there are 11 dance parlors where any person desiring to spice up their ballroom skills can attend. And not just ballroom, salsa, belly dance, flamenco and swing. All ages of partners were inside.

And the street artists, the first victims of my journalistic endeavors. The sense of comfort they bring to sunset-missions, easy to break the ice with. Peter Jackson was a flautist of epic proportions well before his 18th birthday. His mother forced a rigorous practice routine which was his initial fall from artistic grace. Moving away from home meant a trial separation from the flute; yet their reunion is obvious to pedestrians within three blocks of the 4th and Harrison corner.

And any kind of food around, Mel's Diner being the first stop. Onion rings, no, no, tubes of crystallized onion encased in a magic spice blanket more like. The waiters were lovely but seemed to rushed to be bothered with questions. The 50's diner feel lost its charm after a quick unenthusiastic speech on the soups of the day, but that did little to stop the magic of the onion rings. The music is all retro and everybody has little hats to uniform the workers from the customers.

And then my first source, a student about my age just resting in the Yerba Buena Gardens. He was a big explorer of the entire city, and the SoMa was his favorite. We walked through the whole district and he shared memory after memory. They all related to specific art, later revealing his love of photography and his major of cinematography.

Much more to see, but I finally broke into the eyes of locals.