Robert Andersen Reflects on an Unforgettable Encounter
March 3, 2021
A favonian October afternoon in the San Francisco of 2005 finds you in North Beach, on Columbus Avenue, sitting in the empty bar at Rose Pistola, way over in the corner, nursing a glass of red and polishing a manuscript titled
A San Francisco Writer. You wrote the piece to take stock of a stalled writing career, to announce the return of the native son, the deracinated native son missing Maine and not at all certain that the Noe Valley sojourn is a wise move. Too many memories growing up there. Trespassing on your youth.