My first visit to the sunshine state of California was almost at an end. I had separated from my hosts to take a ride on the San Francisco light rail down its steep slopes to Fisherman's Wharf. It was a Monday, the 1st of September, and the Labour Day holiday was on. People were out on the streets as was the pleasant California sun. The occasional sea-gull shrieked its protests at the number of people entering its sea front domain while sounds of the sea-lions basking themselves at Pier 39 floated in from the distance.
Fisherman's Wharf was a charmed place that afternoon, the people in the most sunny of moods strolling around without a care in the world as the street performers did their stuff. I paused at a group of Jamaicans playing their tinny drums and singing Bob Marley numbers. I got completely caught up in the moment, a near out-of-body experience for my nomad soul. With the sounds of the Pacific in the background, a cool salty afternoon breeze and the infectious "No woman, no cry" number being belted out, I sighed and wished with the deepest possible wish for a job which could offer me more blissful Mondays like this one!
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