Haight Street had already fallen asleep when I got invited for a small afterparty at Lee’s house. The band had played it last song in Club Deluxe, which was closing. I didn’t know who Lee was, but I joined the two girls and guy who live in the commune in the Red Victorian where I rented a room. Haight Street somehow reminds me of Camden, Londen. The home of the extravagant, the eccentric and the niche. Colourful, expressive young human-beings with an urge to express. Late descendants of the Summer of Love. We waited in front of the gate at Lee’s house. All front doors in San Francisco have iron  gates to protect the home from the lawless and the homeless. Because having a home in San Francisco is a privilege. It’s not for everyone. We were waiting for Jim to open the door. Everything was dressed in red light. Like the red light district in Amsterdam, but without the smell of lubricant. The afterparty was not really a party, more a small get together. Lee, self-named ‘Truthsayer’, is a musician and collector. A creative polymath, a peacock, a Captain Hook without the hook. His dressing room is full of Victorian outfits and everyone needed to try them on. Haight is full of these peculiar souls. The street is full of them shopping for Burning Man, the art festival in Black Rock Desert. After some drinks and weed from an electrical device - there are more smoking toys here than in Amsterdam - I went home alone. I had forgotten to write down the code of front door and there was no buzzer. I climbed over a homeless man to work myself over the fence. Luckily the front door was unlocked. I looked back at the unfortunate man but he didn’t open his eyes. A man who sleeps on the street every day doesn’t wake up from a passerby. I had weird dreams that night.