 Starting this summer, the Conservatory of Flowers opens its ancient doors two nights a month, hands out flashlights and lets visitors seek adventure.
The conservatory sits like a crown atop the manicured lawns. But you know you're in San Francisco by the unique life that infuses the formal gardens- bongo and tabla players drum the park's incessant heartbeat; couples pitch Frisbees between the elegant irises; a tour guide holds her pink umbrella aloft, guiding her international charges in a tidy row along the paths.
The building's beauty seems fragile at first- wooden arches form delicate curves, the walls are not solid, but  made of thousands of panels of whitewashed glass. It's as if someone had constructed a Victorian-style bell from thousands of toothpicks and gauze and then slathered the entire structure with wedding cake frosting. But, in fact, this historic dome weighs nearly 3,000 pounds and it sits atop the oldest standing conservatory in North America.
One step into the greenhouse and you immediately feel like you've entered a different time zone. The air smells alive, damp and complex. Light bounces from all directions, thickened from the near constant misting and fanning. Straight ahead is an enormous philodendron. Like most easy to grow plants, this specimen holds court in many a San Francisco living room. The one looming in the center of the main room, however, stands at least 30 feet high. Indeed it's the largest specimen in cultivation, well over 100 years old. And it's just one of the hundreds and hundreds of wonders interspersed between the five tall rooms of the conservatory.
I make my way along the trail of wide stones that skirts the rooms. In addition to the whirring fans circulating the tropical air, there's also the sound of shutters clicking as visitors the world round admire the exotic orchids, bromeliads and aquatic plants.
 I'm eager to see the flying creatures, though, so I rush past the tourists and enter the back butterfly room. As I push through the long strips of plastic that create a barrier in the doorway, two things hit me at once: an intense heat and mini breezes. It's in the upper 80s and there are over 25 different kinds of butterflies stirring up the air with their tiny, colorful wings. They gambol and frolic in the air, not caring if they fly into flowers and trees or into visitors' startled faces.
Of course the kids are going nuts. Oblivious to the sauna-like atmosphere, the children squeal as they scamper after the colorful creatures. It's funny to watch the kids stumble to a stop, their gusty bravado instantly transformed into serious concentration when a butterfly does ultimately alight on an outstretched arm.
I don't know if it's the heat or that the excitement of the little ones is contagious, but with each minute these butterflies seem even more otherworldly, more marvelous: velvety, intricate wings; bulging, eerie eyes. Not to mention the skinny legs jutting out in all directions, tastes buds secured to the bottom of their feet.
In the center of the room is the display case. Rows of chrysalides and cocoons hang in tidy rows. Every few days new batches arrive from Florida and replace the ones that have hatched, so there is a never ending cycle of emergence. We press our noses to the glass and gape. If you look closely you can see the forms of the creatures inside. Elegant and self contained they hang upside down, looking like a cross between a bat and a sea horse.
Along the bottom of the display cage are newly hatched flying creatures- butterflies and moths alike. These aren't just any moths, but the mysterious Luna moth: lime green, nearly the size of a small sparrow and born without a mouth. Their wings stuck are initially together, still wet from the stickiness of birth.
Beautiful, mysterious creatures. In fact it's not only a mystery to the visitors, but to the scientists as well. "No one knows how they do it," said Rachel Diza-Bastin, local butterfly scientist. "The caterpillars just turn to a sort of goo while they reorganize their cells. It's a mystery."
All this intrigue in the middle of a bright day. What would the night safari bring?
Well, for one, it brings a lot more silence. No more fans, no more mists, no more chatty clusters of tourists clicking their cameras. It's far too dark to take pictures and the darkness makes you concentrate one step at a time.
Another sound permeates the vast old building at night: crickets. They've snuck in to the crevices and chirrup themselves at home. I hear a sudden rustle, a sudden silence, a sudden chewing. I realize it might not be my imagination. A small army of geckoes patrols the night foliage, pouncing on their dinners.
Without the crowds, there's time to explore each corner of the old building. The light fades outside the enormous walls of windows and the shadows grow inky and gray. The tiny flashlight seem to grow stronger and the smells of the night flowers infuses the air.
Whereas in the day it seemed the rooms held a tumble of noise and color, at night you are more drawn to that which fills the circle of light dangling from your hand. In this way you can investigate the veins on a hanging water gourd or look deep in the mouth of the Dracula orchid hanging in the corner.
Once back in the butterfly room, we find the Luna moths slowly moving through the foliage. One benefit of night visiting is that the enormous moths fan out their wings while at rest, making it easier to observe the mysterious markings on their backs. Like jeweled serpents eyes, these precise decorations warn off would be predators. The butterflies, for their part, are folded up like lawn chairs put away for the night. People pace the room, speaking in hushed voices as they search the rafters for sleeping clusters of butterflies.
At night it's easier to feel who the visitor is.
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