I remember summers in the San Fernando Valley would be endless days of heat, dryness, the eternal stillness of foreign palms static without a breeze, and foot blistering asphalt. A brown cloud stretched from Sylmar to Sherman Oaks and over to Chatsworth and Woodland Hills, but it was immediately dispersed once you hit the Sepulveda Pass. I had to travel 45 minutes to escape the natural saucepan. Now I face misty fog covered mornings without much chance of evaporation. But it doesn’t really matter when I’m 15 minutes away from an icon like the Golden Gate Bridge. Like my first encounters with the Brooklyn Bridge, I can’t get over this fine example of humanity’s aesthetic prowess. It’s simplistic, but a bridges functionality is so fucking moving. See where we’re standing? See that piece of land over there? See this water in the way? I bet we can do something about it.

Anna and I took an urban hike down the coast this weekend from Crissy Field to Fort Point, a place popular for Golden Gate close-ups and Alfred Hitchcock nostalgia. I was also testing out a new lens my lovely wife bought me this week. I needed fresh eyes and she supplied them.

We started out, simple enough, walking down the coast on a well-paved trail.

I quickly began growing enamored of all the houseboats, yachts, and fishing boats. I think I’d last two hours out in the sea.

We moved along briskly until we found an adult playground. Below, Daredevil Anna at her best.

This is Anna’s “I want to go back to Tulum” face.

A free visitor’s center is about a mile into the walk. The building looks weathered, but its sturdiness was apparent. The texture of the center was gorgeous, marked with cracks, chips, dents and faded paint.

Then I asked Anna to show me her shark teeth.

Anna helped the French tourists with a family photo.

And I speared toward the quinceñera with all her caballeros surrounding her. Look at that dress! Pero que chulada!

San Francisco kind of had my heart after this. (My Los Angeles friends and family will not like this sentence)

There were more tourists than I expected, but the locals were out as well. Below, a fisherman casts his line while his friend plays some tunes. To the right, a boy exits the Warming Hut, a cafe/bookstore/restaurant with some of the better souvenirs I’ve seen in the city. Listen and learn, Fisherman’s Wharf.

We didn’t want to settle for the baguette bullshit. Anna doesn’t eat red meat, but the hot dog cart, “Let’s Be Frank”, carries a turkey option called “The Bird Dog.” It was meant to be, especially since Anna said the hot dog cart’s smell reminded her of camping.

You know how we do it!

At this point, I was feeling the tingly sensation I felt when I first encountered the Brooklyn Bridge in 2007.

Mandatory Golden Gate photo-op.

Anna was excited about taking my portrait.

I don’t want to compare everything to New York City, but I feel a strong sense of deja vu here; the industrial building, fog, towering behemoth of a structure and my perspective from below. It all reminded me of DUMBO in Brooklyn.

After five miles, fog, cold, warm, breeze, wind, pavement, sand, dirt trails, and my nonstop portrait taking, Anna took a breath, soaked it all in, and relaxed. It was our most productive saturday to date.

The Paramount Theater opened its doors in 1931 as the largest multi-purpose theater in the West Coast. Its iconic facade has experienced openings, closures, renovation and revival.

I haven’t had the opportunity to enter the building, but people tell me its grand lobby is something worthy of marvel and praise. My casual afternoon walks for midday coffee take me to the Paramount on a daily basis. It’s deliberate. I could easily meander through the side streets to find a macchiato, but why would I deprive myself of a daily, lovely sight? My fascination is with that towering mosaic and the way it glistens in the showering East Bay sun.

On my way back from a caffeine run, I ran into these downtown dwellers smiling and pointing at my new best friend. Their appreciation was completely sincere, and I appreciated that. They stood their ground, gawking at the golden sparkle, studying the exteriors details. I was envious because I don’t think I’ve had time between my coffee runs to do what they were doing. Maybe I’ll stop for a few minutes tomorrow.

Josh warms up for an evening in Austin, TX.

4am. Alarm sounds. 219 miles from Rinaldi in Granada Hills to Shields Ave in Fresno. We have a 930am interview. I can’t throw the shirt on because someone once said never wear shirts with writing in the booth. I like that advice, so I’ll listen to it.

Maybe I should wear it on my flight to Mexico City on Monday. It would mean changing the standard Basquiat-black-jeans-black-puma-bag flight uniform. And it would tell everyone once I’ve landed que soy del otro lado.

He told me to take deep, consistent breaths. The needle penetrated and within moments I could feel a tingling and puffiness.

So what do you do?
I work for an oral history project.

Well, Alejandro. You have very strong roots.
Culturally, as well., I said.

Numbness.

…and then we head out of our office to find slick asphalt and uninspiring weather, making it even harder to leave our little castle in the middle of Fresno…

“ABOLISH – FEDERAL – RESERVE – BANKERS”
I’ve had this in my pocket since San Francisco.

It’s been a long time since I professed my love to someone on a park bench or a tree. Where do you want me to etch our names, amor?

Mexico Vs New Zealand from Alejandro De La Cruz on Vimeo.

There’s no one else on the street that’s willing to celebrate the rain.