It was an old hotel whose ground floor had been converted into a restaurant and the upstairs deserted. It's facade was so San Francisco that it took my breath away. Arches and curlicues, a stately entrance with 10 foot doors and wrought iron everywhere. It was breathtaking and, still staring wide-eyed, I whispered "c'mon" before leading the way in. The inside was even better, with wide sweeping staircases that I'm sure hold amazing history, crystal chandeliers, dark-chocolate colored wood everywhere and thick, jewel-toned, intricately patterned carpeting. It was magic and history and mystery and heartbreak and hope all at once, like the city it sits in.
We snuck upstairs, over the velvet ropes and quickly ascending while hugging the shadows. I was exploring the deserted dusty ballroom and the views to the street below. My partner in crime was busy as well. His tickling the ivories of the old and rheumy grand piano had attracted like-minded and like-hearted rebel explorers. There was singing. There was dancing. There was laughter...and the old placed sighed with satisfaction. There is magic in that place, in that city, in that night, in this world.