There’s a man down on Market street shouting, and even from eight floors up I can tell he’s not happy. Though one can’t make out the content of his rants, I can assure you they’re most likely not appropriate for a conversation with your grandmother.

Walking in today, I turn a corner near a bakery as they prep to open, and was overwhelmed by the scent of bread, and the reminder that I can’t eat it for the next month (damn potential gluten sensitivity). Around me, morning commuters perked their nose and looked around, this wonderfully warm unknown smell interrupting their scurrying.

I pass a man in the subway singing a cappella whenever I get on a train at Montgomery. No matter what day, no matter what season, he’s singing “My Cherie Amour” at the top of his lungs, perfectly. I make eye contact with him and drop a dollar in his hat – one must reward musical talent, after all. He smiles, and the song’s stuck in my head for the next hour.

Stuck behind a group of visitors on Market street as I run errands yesterday evening, I’m dumbstruck by a scent I can’t place. Laundromat cleanser? Unknown cologne? Aftershave of an old flame? Nope, I’m just outside the Abercrombie at Westfield – yep, that’s what it is.

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