To me, Sunday mornings are sacred, but not for any religious reason. It’s when I head out for a weekly bike ride through Golden Gate Park west to Ocean Beach. But one weekend, I decide to go on a Saturday instead. I take my usual route – cruising through the aromatic eucalyptus trees along the Panhandle, hugging the curves of John F Kennedy Drive in Golden Gate Park. But when I arrive at the white Conservatory of Flowers, something’s different. On my left, a soothing, and out-of-place sound emerges from out of nowhere. It’s jazz.