There are a handful of people waiting at the intersection. They’re probably headed towards the Ferry Building. Some of them look like they just came from those startlingly white tents. Most of these people are in groups: families who are no doubt tourists, paying due diligence to the guidebooks.
However, that’s not where my business lies today. Instead, I resolutely make a left turn down Drumm Street, somewhat in the direction of Financial District central.
Both sides of the street are filled with parked cars. This is strange, because I could count the number of people on the street on both hands. I couldn’t count all of the cars with both my hands and both my feet, or even double that amount. Equally strange is the lack of moving cars. The only moving wheeled object in sight is a stroller, which soon rolls to a stop as well.
When I reach Sacramento Street, I make another left turn. On this street sits a mall, but it’s too early for business yet. I catch another snatch of jazzy music, but this time it’s a trumpet accompanied by an orchestra. The sound reaches me asynchronously from varying speakers.
The music is briefly interrupted by a harsh cacophony—rap? A youth appears in the distance, bobbing to his phone. Further in the distance, a single car horn honks. Gratefully, it’s the only honk I hear this morning.