Little Boxes

 Flying into San Fransisco was a relief, but only the beginning of our journey. Thoughouly chilled out on no sleep, we drifted from tube, to train to bus in a daze, quietly observing. San Fransisco is a trip. I kept singing ¨Little Boxes¨ by Melvina Reynolds, from Weeds. The hillsides are, quite literally, little boxes stuffed, stacked and cramped onto the hillside, and it reminded me of Caracas, Venezuela....As a side note, I hate that show; I think it is trite, asinine and racist. It was an uglky town, a conglomerate of consumer'driven city planning, with almost every road the same as the next: full of fast food dolled up to look swish, parking lots, and billboards overwhelming landmarks. Looking out of the train window at the flat-topped houses, the horizon was dim with smog that caught in my lungs and made my throat stick.

Little boxes on the hillside,

Little boxes made of ticky tacky,1
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.


And the people in the houses
All went to the university,
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same,
And there's doctors and lawyers,
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky tacky
And they all look just the same.

   We randomly rode a bus, asked around, and ended up in the right place after all: Elliot´s grandmother Bev´s house in Sacramento. We walked along perfect, tree lined streets, still giddy from finally putting our feet on the ground, while the sun winked through grey skies above,  our dramatic hand gestures casting oblique stage shadows on the pavement.