It's still dark when we dinghy ashore. We have a rental car that's supposed to be delivered at noon, and we want to make the most of it.
We drive to the vista point above Golden Gate, but the fog is thick and we can't see neither the brigde nor anything else. Time is of an essence and we decide to drive on.
We end up at the vista point on Twin Peaks. We've been bickering about where to drive, and this is it. It's still foggy, though.
There's a parking lot and some trees. It's hard to figure out what the rest is about. I'm walking restlessly along the rim of what's suppose to be one of the major views of San Francisco. There are several mounted binoculars that gives a hint of what to expect. Is the town down there? How high up are we? Can we see Golden Gate? I have no idea. We just have to wait until the sun burns through.
There's a woman on a bycycle. She's sifting through the garbage. Did she came all the way up here for that? That's amazingly hard work for a few plastic bottle cents.
I'm walking back to Nina. Another car pulls up besides us. I see two guys, and they are not here for the view. They're sharing a pipe. The smoke turns the frontscreen to a whiteout. We can hear bass rytms pounding through the metal frame of the car.
There's no one else up here but us. I feel it's wise to leave, though I'm not saying that to Nina. Fear is a strange thing. I'm anxious not to give myself away as squeemish.
Finally they lower their windows and the rap music come blasting out. There's a poignat smell of marihuana. It smells like rubber, like condoms. The driver is coughing badly. He bends forward in the convulsions.
The passenger steps out of the car and gives the wall of fog a lot of attention. I can see the driver laughing by himself. There's nothing stopping him. He's red-eyed, his face all twisted. I'm telling Nina that this is it, and starts the car.
We drive to the vista point above Golden Gate, but the fog is thick and we can't see neither the brigde nor anything else. Time is of an essence and we decide to drive on.
We end up at the vista point on Twin Peaks. We've been bickering about where to drive, and this is it. It's still foggy, though.
There's a parking lot and some trees. It's hard to figure out what the rest is about. I'm walking restlessly along the rim of what's suppose to be one of the major views of San Francisco. There are several mounted binoculars that gives a hint of what to expect. Is the town down there? How high up are we? Can we see Golden Gate? I have no idea. We just have to wait until the sun burns through.
There's a woman on a bycycle. She's sifting through the garbage. Did she came all the way up here for that? That's amazingly hard work for a few plastic bottle cents. I'm walking back to Nina. Another car pulls up besides us. I see two guys, and they are not here for the view. They're sharing a pipe. The smoke turns the frontscreen to a whiteout. We can hear bass rytms pounding through the metal frame of the car.
There's no one else up here but us. I feel it's wise to leave, though I'm not saying that to Nina. Fear is a strange thing. I'm anxious not to give myself away as squeemish.
Finally they lower their windows and the rap music come blasting out. There's a poignat smell of marihuana. It smells like rubber, like condoms. The driver is coughing badly. He bends forward in the convulsions.
The passenger steps out of the car and gives the wall of fog a lot of attention. I can see the driver laughing by himself. There's nothing stopping him. He's red-eyed, his face all twisted. I'm telling Nina that this is it, and starts the car.
