While Mike and I were waiting for the F to take us to Castro, we decided we would find something fantastic. As we stood there debating about what constitutes wonderful, we saw a cluster of balloons rise up the Bart escalator. Among all the others were two numbers: 90. The woman carrying these balloons was pretty. I liked to imagine she was going to cheer up someone very old who would certainly be delighted. Fantastic, right? But Mike didn't think so. So we ventured onwards.

After doing a bunch of other tasks, we finally headed home, but missed our stop on the F, and had to backtrack a block. As we were walking, music drifted into the air. It was a saxophone playing, but no the jazz or the blues. It was pure plaintive heartbreak. And it was beautiful. We looked around until we found the musician, a man who threw his whole body into the music of his silver saxophone. It gave me goosebumps. This, truly was wonderful.

Later, when I was waiting outside Ashby Bart, I stumbled upon a drum circle. The drums were throbbing, pounding. There were about ten drummers, but somehow they all managed to keep a spontaneously cohesive rhythm. Even I, the whitest of white girls, was tempted to stomp my feet and toss my head and twist my hips to the beat. If that is not a miracle, what could be?