Day 1 on of my writing adventure in San Francisco. Or, if I would be honest, day 2. But I’m a writer and I tend to fictionalize everything, including my life. Right? So we skip January 1 – also because what more can you say about the first day of the year when you spend it in a plane? – and jump to January 2: Day 1.


I’m sounding out cafés to write. This is my first one. Café Francisco on the corner of Powell and Francisco. I’m sitting in a booth, hidden from the patrons by the coffee machine, and flanked by five young adults chatting away in the booth next to me; three quiet-ish boys and two chatty girls. ‘I know your face,’ one says. ‘I’m not taking your bullshit.’ Could be a great line to start a story with, but I’m not listening too intently to what they’re saying. I’m watching their interaction, how they sit and move, how they react to each other and to their friends’ words, how their brows crease deep when they show – feign? – interest in the opinions expressively expressed.


On my way to the café I passed a couple of homeless people, tucked away under a blanket, close together but each of them in his or her own universe of – seemingly – nothingness.


The chatter of the five, the soft whispers of a couple sitting further away, the whirring of the coffee machine, the laughter of a group of co-workers in a corner, they spark words and images.


And the waiter… the waiter is just the guy I needed for my story. My protagonist’s wake-up call.


So, even if the day just started, I can tell you it going to be a good day for writing and stories.


Café Francisco


Corner of Powell and Francisco