We scaled the Marin headlands in our rental car, seeking an icon—the bridge, what else? Midway up, we hurriedly parked and peered toward the Golden Gate, which was obscured by a thick, blue grey white trundling mass. This sea above a sea, it calmly rushed over hills, over water, toward the city. “Sorry!” my friend said. “You can’t even see the bridge!” No sorry. Despite the fog, because of the fog, we could see so much. A rainbow hovered in front of us, arching over our shadows. The fog, presenting our alternate selves. Higher we went. A sense of adventure permeated the thick air, even though nothing was happening but the evening wearing on. And the fog flowed like a river, a waterfall over…