Personal Narrative: The City Of San Francisco

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The fierce sun that afternoon blazed its burning rays down the freeway.
Engines bellowed sonorously as they sprinted by each other on the freeway.
Los Angeles was unusually rainy that day. Rain splashed the windows under the afternoon sun, clinging to the smooth glass before being blown away. Droplets disturbed the silence inside the car as they drummed on the roof, whispering goodbyes before being blown away. The heavy shower dotted the glass, blurring the world beyond it. When the blazing sun disappeared, gray murky clouds that extended endlessly like a gray duvet took over. The zippy cars were still speeding along the freeway, leaving splashes behind them.
The gloomy piano piece with the notes wavering unsurely reverberated throughout the
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My parents loved to travel to the old cities, the cities pervaded with old stuff like San Francisco. So did I like nostalgic cities and towns. From the spectacular Golden Gate Bridge, to the bustling harbor and houses with fancy old architectural looks along with the busy modern shopping centers. I loved San Francisco, a city of cheerful nostalgia.
Just as, in 1989, a horrific earthquake, named Loma Prieta ruined the famous Embarcadero freeway and devastated the two-storey ramp leading to the Golden Gate Bridge, highways 101 and 880 from the city of Oakland, San Francisco's neighbors. I had watched much footage of this highway and had wished I was born in the 80s to witness these structures, although many people had said these highways were not really safe.
The embedded digital clock showed eight o’clock on its small, dimly lit LCD screen. The aurora sky in the western horizon was still faintly glowing, but the sky here was already pitch black. The sound of tarmac burning rubber still rumbled. I turned to ask Dad if he would need somewhere to rest and eat, mentally counted that he had been continuously driving for four straight

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