It was a beautiful Spring afternoon three years ago and I was in one of my favorite cities, San Francisco. Only my second trip to the city, I was actually there under the guise of continuing medical education. Somehow managed to find ample time, however, to explore what I had missed the first time around:)
On the afternoon of exploration hinted at above, I found myself in Haight-Ashbury. I was accompanied by two friends and we were on a mission. A shopping mission. Not for drugs or its associated paraphernalia as our chosen shopping district might lead you to suspect. We were shopping for clothes, cute-one-of-a-kind-only-in-San-Fran kind of clothes. As this trip was 3 - and not 30 - years ago, we were very successful in our endeavors.
We decided to reward ourselves with a small celebratory drink. This week in San Francisco had been filled with similar celebrations:) We found a bar easily enough and were charmed into entering by its name - The Punch House.
I believe at the time that we were expecting some very traditional decor with perhaps a house drink special. A "punch." I remember "E" inquiring about the possibility of a punch drink and I very distinctly remember the blank stares we received as a result of her inquiry. I know that we did each have a drink - limit set by "T" at 1 - but don't recall the specifics. We drank quickly and exited just as quickly. This, we concluded with unspoken agreement, was not a place to linger.
There was nothing specifically sketchy about the place. It was just a feeling we all had. A definite lack of welcome for three, obviously non local, happy women on a shopping high.
We left the area and completed the interrupted celebration, characteristically, at another locale. A little clueless, but satisfyingly so.
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