The last wild part of San Francisco is the Pacific, which bounds the city for five miles at its western edge, abutting Ocean Beach and the gridiron of the Sunset’s pink-green bungalows. All of this is always, as San Francisco mostly isn’t, beset by fog: white, eerie, gracious. They can raise the rents but they can’t dispel the fog. Nor the campfires plugged into the cruising grounds of the dunes—illegal, burning every night.
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