Joy on Powell

We were walking up Powell, again. We were going to Bush, the street our hotel was on, for the third time that day, a real workout. It could have been worse, we could have been staying a couple of blocks higher at one of the really ritzy hotels on California Street. We would probably have taken a cab, thereby missing the street scene.



A respectable middle-aged couple of Asian heritage were approaching. They were impeccably dressed. They were laughing. Really laughing. While the man was trying to manage his grin, the woman had surrendered to her mirth. As they neared us the funky odor of concentrated THC, a scent we had been noticing more and more on our walks, saturated the air. When they passed the woman, still laughing, covered her open mouth with her hands.

Japanese tourists on an herbal vacation, I thought, although I might have been wrong.

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