Jewels and Gems

Thursday I flew in and out of Hillsboro in a Brazilian-made Embraer 135. It's a neat little plane that holds about three dozen people, two thirds of whom have window seats. On the way home I sat behind a guy who is about four levels in management above me and cringed at the thought he might realize he'd seen me around and decide to chat. You know, ask my name and how I'm doing and just what did I use this expensive corporate air shuttle for today anyhow? Us employees have a lot of autonomy and I should have no worries -- and believe me, using it is by itself no indication of importance -- but I would just as soon avoid the third degree.

Anyway, I just wanted to write about one little thing: the view out the plane when we hit the Bay Area. It was fun to watch Hillsboro and Tualatin and points south drop away into little pinpoints in the night, but nothing prepared me for the sight of San Francisco. I had forgotten we weren’t flying into Sacramento. When I looked out the window, I tried to understand the landscape in the context of approaching Sacramento, with no indication of north and south and nothing visible but the electric lights. Which is Woodland? Which is I-5? But as we continued towards a greater concentration of lights, they didn’t shape themselves into the configuration of the capital city. They were spread apart into unfamiliar blobs, very beautiful blobs, but not what I was expecting. And suddenly with a flash I realized that the great dark region was not farmland but San Pablo Bay, and that was Richmond across there, and we were flying over Marin; and with no further warning, the tiny highrises of San Francisco came into view, glowing gold and silver, set like gems in a vast glowing brooch, surrounded by the impenetrable blackness of the waters. The Bay Bridge was tiny pearl-strings, and Market St flowing with traffic, and the red sign of the Castro Theater a ruby set nearby.

This panorama was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

When I was a kid my mom took me on the Peter Pan ride at Disneyland. I was enchanted by the flight over London. For just a few seconds we floated over a sea of tiny buildings, tiny lights, tiny carriages going to and fro. It was a moment to be kept frozen forever, like a beautiful musical phrase, a slow visual orgasm, something to be experienced whenever possible yet seen so very rarely. Few things are able to demand my full attention. Our passage at night above the opposing peninsulas of Marin and San Francisco and then down into San Jose -- intricate dark yellow streetlight patterns, silvers and light blues and greens diffused from countless tiny windows, red and white electric ants following their trails -- was such a thing.