It’s a glistening, beautiful day in San Francisco. As my car careens over the hill between Russian Hill (and the Marina), and North Beach, I am dumbstruck as Columbus Avenue sits in front of me.
There are literally 100+ people dressed up as Santas, congregating out in front of the International Sports Club, which intersects Chestnut and Columbus.
Is this the sign of the impending apocalypse? I don’t know, and besides I am with family, so I keep dim abstractions to self.
Later that day, my wife cajoles me to take the her and the kids ice skating in Union Square. Union Square is a place that holds a visual allure for me dating back to before I lived in the Bay Area, and visited several times a year as a kid.
Skating gingerly on the ice, I feel that this picturesque moment is as close to ice skating in Rockefeller Center as you can get, as it is elevated above the street level so that in one corner of the eye, Macy’s is resplendent in its decked out holiday state, in another, lie the Westin-St. Francis, Neiman-Marcus and Saks, respectively.
The picture postcard moment comes full circle, as my eyes are confronted by a broken, but steady, stream of slightly disheveled, and clearly drunk, Santa Clauses, descending upon Union Square.
Pomp and slosh, seamlessly co-existing. Part of what makes San Francisco such a special place.
Post-script: I find out later that the onslaughts of Saint Nicks (and Nickies) is part of Santarchy, a seasonal opportunity to get dressed up and drunk in the spirit of the holidays.
