August 29, 2005: Warm San Franciscan Nights

There's an Eric Burdon song called "San Franciscan Nights" in which he rhapsodizes about San Francisco in its late-sixties hippie heyday. Despite the lyrical over-romanticization of flower power, the rough edge of Burdon's well-deep voice against spare, lilting, fairy-like guitar leads keeps this song evocative for me - conjuring up drop-out acid beauty in its most benign incarnation .
It's a song I don't really remember hearing for a first time; instead it's one of those tunes that seems to simply percolate up from the same part of the brain where certain other memories of seventies childhood are stashed. I am a little dude of seven, dressed - without irony - in plaid flares in the backseat of the Monte Carlo; Petula Clark is coming through the AM radio enchanting me with thoughts of "Downtown." We lived in Wichita and I'd seen downtown, but she still made it seem like Christmas. Then a song like "San Franciscan Nights" would come on and, although I didn't understand the references, I knew that downtown San Francisco would no doubt be more to Petula Clark's liking than Wichita.
Since I moved to San Francisco and made it my home I have always wondered at Burdon's chorus praising those "warm San Franciscan nights." Warm nights are rare in San Francisco, especially in summer. The hotter the day becomes, the more urgently the sea breeze rushes in at dusk to extinguish the heat. Was Burdon really unfamiliar with San Francisco, despite his homage that urged everyone to come here, if only "for the sake of your own peace of mind?"
Or was he, in fact, singing of that rare evening in SF, when the air is still, the pavement radiates heat and people are drawn out of their Victorians and wool and into the streets? I think this is the case. While the city's generally moody weather suits me well, the balmy nights are all the more extraordinary for their infrequence.
Tonight is one of those nights. I got out and walked around a bit - the same streets I've walked hundreds of times - but this time, with the luxury of langour. I was able to notice those details you tend to miss when the wind has you scurrying along: blossoming trees, cats in windows, the cleverer sidewalk cement etchings. With the right company I felt I could stroll blissfully all the way to the ocean. But it's Monday. People work in the morning. I was on my own. There was still a holiday feeling, though, with the streetlight on my bare arms and food smells hanging in the air, untroubled by any wind. Cool nights are the rule in this city no matter what the time of year. But the odd mild evenings can pop up any time. Then it's as if our whole town were traveling across the latitudes while we came along for the ride. It's a vacation at home. This warmth is even enough to thaw my jaded, inner urbanite a bit. I can even forgive those damn hippies.