Tim and his roommates had given us so many good food recommendations that we were going to have to double up on meals. For first breakfast, we headed over to Katz's bagels. They were great, but we didn't go there for the quality, we went there because it was close. Aimee and I know ourselves well enough to know that adventures before we get some food in our bellies never end well.
The real event of the "morning" (I think it was 11:30 by then) was Dynamo donuts. Tim's roommate suggested we go when we told him about our increasingly non-joke donut tour. It was a thirty minute walk through the Mission District to get to the donut shop, and the neighborhood is an alternating array of ethnicity and gentrification.
Mexican block, hipster block, Chinese block, hipster block, Nicaraguan block, hipster block, etc.
We knew that we had arrived at the donut shop before we even saw the sign. We knew it by the bearded dude standing out front with a pink single speed bike on his shoulder. We were definitely not on the Mexican block.
I don't even know where to begin about Dynamo donuts. I think I would have enjoyed the donuts a whole lot more if I could see them. But my eyes were fixed upwards in such an extreme roll that I could barely see where I was walking.
I already told you about the kind of customer this place attracts. And then when we got to the counter, there were two boards hanging in front of the cash register. By the flavors listed on them, I assumed that they were specials, but they were actually the only two donuts that they had available. And when I asked the disinterested 20-something at the counter if they had any others, he sighed and gave me a look to say that if I didn't like the sound of a cornmeal almond glaze donut, it was my own damn problem.
But we weren't going to walk all this way and not have something, so we ordered a cornmeal "donut" and a sticky bun, their only other offering.
And if it weren't for the overwhelming taste of pretentiousness, it actually wasn't half bad. But I tell you what, you can keep your cornmeal. Just give me a bit of goddamn chocolate.
All I could think about was the five or six undoubtedly amazing Mexican panaderias that we passed on the way over. Each one would have sold me a dozen donuts for the price that I payed for two at Dynamo. And they would have had some goddamn chocolate.
Regrets.
But there are far worse ways to start your day than with pretentious donuts. And it only went up from there.
We walked back to Tim's neighborhood to put together a picnic at the nearby Dolores Park.
This was, far and above, the coolest neighborhood park that either of us had visited. During his tour the day prior, Tim pointed out the various regions of the park: Hippy hill, family corner, gay beach ("On a sunny day, there are a whole lot of speedos over there"). We picked a spot in an area free of any clear allegiances, and set up shop.
In between naps, we were offered drugs no fewer than three times, including--no joke--vegan, gluten free pot brownies. We were definitely in San Francisco. Later that night, when I told Tim about the offerings, he looked at me like I had just told him that there were plants and swings in the park.
