The Fog.

Ye Fogge!

The third day of August, two-thousand-and-nine in the year of our lord.

Five-hundred-and-forty-six-days since I have been deposited on this strange land. While I have been documenting my encounters with the local inhabitants and their odd customs since my arrival, I have shamefully, and consciously, avoided mentioning one particular unsettling detail. Night after sleepless night I have attempted to put quill to parchment to warn ye, faithful reader, about the darkest and most treacherous symptom of this far flung “city,” but fear, confusion and a bitter chill hath kept my hand frustratingly at bay.

That is until this morn, when I could no longer bear yet another potential summer day callously plunged into darkness and cold! I have closed the shutters, latched the doors and hardened my resolve to share with you San Francisco’s darkest episode: The Fog.

Most days, The Fog creeps over hillsides and descends over the town, blanketing the “city” in thick, cold and windy haze. It inexplicably comes from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Children may be joyously playing outside. Birds might be singing their joyous songs. But then the shrieks of maidens silence all as our eyes turn upward and spy the first wisps wafting over the surrounding peaks.  After a few minutes, a massive, 100 foot tall, impenetrable wall steadily gallops on, trampling warmth and joy in its path.

Be warned! It’s often very foggy here, especially in the mornings. It may burn off in the afternoon (as the locals claim), but it may not. And even if it does. It will be back…

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