A small wind chime gives voice to a breeze. A gifted singer practices an aria. A deep-throated fog horn issues a warning. A dog barks. A child, walking hand-in-hand with her mother, laughs. A raven caws and I reply with, "Nevermore." This symphony is ever-changing, ever-urban and ever-interesting. Sitting on my balcony, high up on the top floor of my 13-story building, I hear it all.
There is much to see, as well.
The balcony faces due west, toward the edge of the continent, which lies just 5.6 miles from my apartment. Some of San Francisco’s hills hide the Pacific Ocean from me, but I never forget that the vast body of water is there. Looking southwest, I see the Sutro Tower, a landmark that punctuates the sky, and also the smaller towers atop Twin Peaks, which sit 922 feet above sea level. To the north, I see high-rise apartment buildings, the dome of a synagogue, assorted church spires, the beautiful Marin Headlands and – a bonus – the south tower of the Golden Gate Bridge.
All that more than makes up for the small size of my one-bedroom apartment. As my friend Emmeline noted gleefully, “You've got a balcony with an apartment attached!” That I do. My old place in San Francisco measured 720 square feet, so fitting my stuff in here was tricky. For weeks before I moved (see the previous blog post for details on that decision), I arranged and rearranged paper cutouts of my furniture on a floor plan, despairing about where to put what.
My son identified the problem immediately. “You live alone,” he said, “but you have seating for 11.” It's true. I like a lot of seating, a holdover from when I owned a 1,700-square-foot condo and often invited 70 people over to celebrate whatever occasion needed noting. Still, those days are long past.
When I considered keeping the Italian leather loveseat and letting go of the sturdy chaise, my son pointed out that I never actually sit on the loveseat, that I’m always on the chaise, reading or watching TV or having a nap. “You have to keep the chaise,” he said. He was right, and I did. Still, when we are once again able to entertain in our homes, the new apartment will seat all eight members of my immediate family inside. If that feels crowded, two or three of them can sit out on the balcony.
As a longtime home owner, in the past I often lived in houses that came with yards. My favorite was the one behind the house I inherited from my parents. There, I planted a 14-foot-tall ginkgo tree, a gift from the city of St. Louis after I wrote a feature article for the newspaper about my favorite tree. Pink peonies and purple iris, planted by my maternal grandmother, also grew in that yard. My cousin Linda planted black parrot tulips along the back fence and filled the flower box out front with red geraniums, orange poppies and other beautiful flowers.
Eventually I sold that house and moved to a second-story condo with a small balcony. In winter, the view was just the brick condo across the green space, but in spring and summer, trees obscured the building. A nesting pair of cardinals lived in one of those trees, so I spent time learning the birds’ calls and repeating them back to them. I got so good at it that one year, a baby cardinal often sat on the balcony rail or my window sill and whistled back.
Perhaps the best part of that balcony was the wooden screen door that led to it, an old-fashioned one that would slam with a satisfying "thwack" as I went in and out whenever my work schedule allowed. Still, the balcony was in the Midwest, where it’s often too hot or too cold to enjoy such a perch. Most of the year, weather in San Francisco is far more temperate, so I enjoy my new balcony often. I go out to tend to my geraniums and my jade plant, I check daily to see if the fog is heading in or I just sit in the sunshine, listening to the sounds of the city.
Recently I’ve popped outside to watch a romantic skywriting pilot draw a big heart for his wife, to observe red-tailed hawks hunting and to see protesters on the march, making frequent use of their loudspeakers. (Most recently, Catholics were insisting they had a right to worship inside their church, global pandemic be damned. That day, I came back inside and wrote a letter to the San Francisco Chronicle questioning the wisdom of the city’s archbishop, who had encouraged the protest. I can protest, too!)
Well before dawn on August 16, I stood on the balcony in awe, watching as flashing lightning lit up the sky for almost three hours. More than 2,500 lightning strikes were recorded in the Bay Area that morning. I was out there again on Sept. 9, when multiple horrific wildfires in the north were responsible for a thick layer of smoke and ash that turned the sky here dark orange. I took the photo below about 9 a.m., and by 10 a.m., the sky was even darker. The sun’s rays never did pierce the marine layer that rested above the thick smoke that day.
My balcony, the best spare room I've ever had, keeps me in constant touch with the city where I live, which makes sheltering in place easier -- and I’m grateful.
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