(this is annie)

I always feel like a supreme fool when writing in cafes. I go to the cafe with good intentions ("Off to write the great American novel," I told my roommate) but I get there and worry that some lurking person will read over my shoulder and laugh at my writing. So instead, I wind up downing my cocoa while writing e-mails or giggling while reading Sadly, No. The novel remains unwritten.

Yesterday, Sabs and Adam (who is called Chuckles, and I don't know why) and I walked up and down hills until we reached the Seward Street slides. They're a pair of twisty concrete slides carved into a fairly steep hill; the idea is to slide down them on a flat piece of cardboard. Going down them is a lot like I imagine luge to be. The ride is terrifyingly fast, and because the chutes are so narrow, it's impossible to go down without sacrificing slices of skin to the rough sides.

There were children playing on the slides, and we shoved them aside to do things grownup style. I kid, but when one of them went down on a skateboard, I couldn't help but wonder why his dad didn't seem to see the broken limb that would inevitably ensure. As for me, I braved those concrete death traps only once, and I just about shit my pants with fear. Getting air on a concrete slide is not my idea of a good time. "Oh god, I'm going to break my tailbone," I thought. "And what if I somehow knock out my teeth?" (The latter remains one of my great fears, even after all these years.)

Sabs and Chuckles are more fun than I am, so they went down a few more times while I played photographer. Sabs posted one of her pictures, but you can't see how scraped up we are. This is the problem with being an oldster: You get damaged more easily and the scars take longer to heal. (Sounds like some corny veiled emotional metaphor, but it's not.)

Photo via someone else's Flickr

Labels: san francisco