Sleepless in San Francisco (Redux)

The sun rises over San Francisco Bay, casting a glowing path of light across the water.

2/25/2016 — Revisited in the morning light (7/6/25)
There’s a kind of freedom in being wide awake at 3:30 a.m. Not the kind that roars and rebels, but the quieter cousin: restless, insomniac, aching for motion. When 400 channels of late-night reruns can’t bore you into unconsciousness, and even the commercials have grown tired of themselves, there’s only one thing to do: run.

So I lace up.

At the top of Nob Hill, Grace Cathedral stands there like it always has—grand, immovable. But for the first time in a hundred passings, I stop. Study the ornate doors. Something about the hour makes you finally see what’s been waiting to be noticed.

Down into the Western Addition valley, I become a loop—a human track rat jogging Jefferson Square’s quiet rectangle. Eddy to Octavia, up to Ellis, down to Franklin, back around. Arctic Monkeys’ 505 plays in my headphones again. And again. That guitar swell at 3:26? It’s practically oxygen.

After a few hard laps, sweat finds its way down my ribs. I settle on a green park bench, damp with fog and dew, tucked beneath a streetlamp’s glow. I lay out my little possessions on the grass—wallet, keys, phone, headphones—like talismans. Cobra stretch. Hamstring pull. Anything to make sure I don’t seize up at the desk job that pays just enough to make the next run possible.

I’m not alone out here.

There are others—some asleep in makeshift corners of the park despite closure code 3021, some awake and drifting, some on substances I don’t try to name. There’s a choreography to keeping my distance while never turning my back. Not out of fear of them. Just the echo of something knotted deeper. As if the only threat to my freedom is the weight I bring with me.

And always, always, 505 loops in my head.

Then comes the couple.

They descend like a clattering gust—talking loud, animated, familiar with these streets. He’s got the bulk and beige of a retired Muni driver, complete with pizza box and post-shift energy. She’s in denim and floral, voice pitched high like a late-night radio jingle. Her hair’s freshly done, curls crisp, proud.

They argue. Loudly. Over what she won’t do. Over what he expects. Over Round Table pizza (which, let’s be honest, was never worth the hype).

I try to stay small, stretching on my bench, breathing deep, hoping they pick any of the dozen other benches nearby. But no. They circle. He makes a comment about “having it next,” as if the bench were a barstool in a dive. She flops down beside my legs like she paid rent.

He steps a few feet away and relieves himself in the grass.

I offer a good morning. They don’t really respond. Her eyes stay on me—hawk-like, unreadable. I gather my things and let grace win the moment. I don’t run. I don’t rant. I just move.

Some sun is peeking up now. The sky beginning to warm. The city, always itself, doesn’t blink.

The steps of Grace Cathedral on Nob Hill are beautifully draped in Pride colors.