welcome to san rafael (and its unscripted magic)
thurston howell III could never afford the sheer chaos of this place. clutching my third oat milk cortado at sleepy tiger coffee, i just peeked at my weather app-14 degrees and clinging to 84% humidity like a method actor refusing to break character. you know that perfect overcast grey that makes everything look like a deleted scene from chopper chicks in zombie town? yeah. san rafael delivers.
if you get bored, mill valley’s redwoods or sausalito’s houseboats are basically walking-distance with a rental car. but honestly? stick around.
"heard the owner of that shady art deco nightclub on fourth ave produced softcore vamp flicks in the 90s,"
whispered the dude scraping crema off his cup next to me. wild.
couldn’t resist hunting for locations after that tip-slipped into rafael film center where some intern swore fog scenes in the conversation were shot behind their dumpster.
"worst mistake you’ll ever make is the al pastor tacos at la placita,"
screamed a guy who definitely looked like he knew regret. tried em anyway. christopher nolan jump cuts couldn’t save that grease explosion.
hiked the phoenix lake trails anyway-humidity wrecked my hair but the dog park near terrapin crossroads has golden retrievers that apparently did background work on dogs playing poker 2. alltrails yelpers don’t mention the culty drum circle at dawn but trust me, they’re there.
"those ferns? definitely smuggled from the jurassic park prop warehouse,"
muttered a park ranger who later tried selling me moon rocks. san rafael, baby. your move.
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