Seeing San Francisco at Age 16

I dug up some old photos last night from my first trip to San Francisco. I was sixteen. A friend and I went to visit my aunt and uncle, and the trip was my first time away from home without my parents (for more than a weekend). It was my first time to the west coast. The flights were the longest I’d been on. (On our way back, we got bumped up to first class–long story–and that would be the first, and apparently only, time I’d fly first class.)

Here, photographic evidence I was ever that young:

Here we are, standing in the middle of the street in Chinatown. Because that’s what you do. (My uncle was taking the photograph. And, yes, we regularly wore jeans that baggy. It was the 90s.)

My first Starbucks. Picture taken from a bus–first time I’d used public transportation, too. From inside, we watched someone give a (presumably) homeless man some pizza, which he then shared with a buddy.

We were waiting in line for a cable car, and apparently we were inspired by the man playing–is that a banjo?–so we started to dance. Because that’s what you do.

Oh, and to put things into perspective? I can’t remember exact dates, but age-wise, I figure Jesse and I started dating within a year of this trip. We were babies.

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