Going Barefoot - Maria Robinson

It's the end of the San Francisco summer that chilled your back as the wind swept you up Market Street. Stuck under a hat, wrapped in Peruvian shawl, you wondered about the meaning of a sun that shone so bright with absolutely no heat. Then yesterday, the morning was still and you knew that meant that the fog had pressed its eery curtain of doom south and you'd be able to walk barefoot in the courtyard and swim in the pool in your building that you could never use.

A few steps onto the tile in a white terry robe. The tops of your toes toasty on the stone and suddenly, San Francisco was a paradise, a charming Riveria-side town where you installed every summer at rented chateau. You stared up at the sky with your big black shades and became a star for a day.