SF MOMA

The city has changed. It's faster and hipper and pricier and pushing, pushing upward and outward and downward. Construction everywhere, digging, and barriers, detours. Buildings and empty lots that were there just a blink ago are have vanished. The $20/day parking lot we always rely on is $40. We move on and spend twenty minutes circling in a parking garage, looking for an opening. Most of the cars in the narrow slots are too big for the spaces, their butts hang out over the lines. A security guy comes by on a bicycle. We are not responsible for objects left in vehicles. I feel like such a tired country mouse.

Everyone in the small restaurant is young, extremely clean-cut and dressed in black. Most of the guys have beautifully shaped shaved heads, or wear black watch caps, except I think they call them beanies now. They all look very techie and smart, busy, on a mission. The food is good.

Finally, the museum.  Walker Evans and Robert Rauschenberg. Not together, thank goodness, but each singing loudly on separate floors. I come away wanting to make exquisite tiny photographs or bright giant collages. The bathroom on the fourth floor is painted all in purple.