Why do so many of my urban tales begin at Civic Center BART Station? On this particular day it was hard enough to remember to get off there. So confusing, so many public-minded meetings in one week — and me being 77 and all, quite taxing for what’s left of the neurons. But I did manage to alight at the proper point, make my way to the surface and experience San Francisco at its daylit darkest. After all, it’s almost the shortest day of the year, the lowest sun of the year, and the absolute best time for seasonal affect disorder. 

I am not particularly SAD, but I do feel particularly cold. That’s what you get for having reduced musculature and diminished circulation along with worsening neurological sensation. Too bad, for here we are surfacing on United Nations Plaza. Skateboards are whizzing. In terms of a don’t-let-the-homeless-congregate measure the new midtown skateboard park works pretty well. I did notice that the chessboards and the chess players were noticeably absent. But so was the sun, so I will suspend judgment.

There is still no sign-posted disabled path across the plaza toward City Hall. The only way involves transiting a circling and chaotic mass of skateboards. The riders are young and proud of their ability to endlessly circle and outmaneuver all pedestrians and objects. And there is also the gratifying knowledge that if a skateboarder runs into me, he or she may not fare very well. Don’t mess with 300 pounds of steel, lead acid batteries and blind quadriplegic will. In short, get the fuck out of my way.

My way toward the municipal seat of power involves a crossing of Hyde Street, approached from UN Plaza which is beautifully paved, bricks aligned just so. As for Hyde Street, it has receded and clawed itself away from the plaza bricks with gnarled fingers. I stare sadly at the gap at the bottom of the curb cut, the black and bumpy pavement an inch below where it should be. But I am not worried, having a brand-new Swedish wheelchair with a $34,000 sticker price. Still, it’s going to be a short, rough ride. And the irony is beyond irony as I bump my way across the street. I am heading to a monthly meeting held by the San Francisco Mayor’s Office of Disability.

And is there anything beyond irony? Absolutely! Hyper irony. Naturally, the elevator lift at the front entrance of our beautiful neoclassical domed City Hall was broken. A sign suggested going to a side door. Locked. Disabled door openers being, well, disabled. So back to the front door to complain to a San Francisco County sheriff who directed me to yet a third door. Which was helpfully marked loading entrance. But I’m a big boy and I rolled in anyway. Only to be inspected by another sheriff. And the rest is history. A short story and a long journey and more soon.