d'hiver

I'm hoping for a trip back to San Francisco, the place that seized four hearts. I'm hoping for a cold road in the best possible sense. and bundles of blankets in the back seat. I'm hoping for some chump change to come with my new server position at the diner and to make it there, this time, with a better sense of things. That's almost an ambivalent thing to say really. I could want to go back and know: this is where we should stay, this part of town is better, these streets are less crowded, this corner is best for taxis, but on the other hand, the sense of not knowing was one of the best feelings ever. I'm hoping winter break will not only bring home the people I've been missing, but will bring part II of our road trip that has become such an iconic part of our lives thus far. It never got old there. Almost like Peter Pan's Neverland, each experience never seemed to age. We could walk around Chinatown for hours going in and out of odd shops, or repeatedly visit Fisherman's Wharf because we wanted to. It was sheer freedom, sheer whatever we wanted to do when we wanted to. Dress up and get milkshakes next door, put on red lipstick and walk three blocks to God knows where, and have our minds blown at the enormity of commercial shopping. Guh, there is too much of a pull. I need, I need, I need, I want to go back. Small things trigger memories, like when I'm driving on the freeway and see a Silver Chevrolet Charger. Or, when the fog rolls in here and I think of our last morning there; standing in the white "dining room" with all the European tourists, making toast and plopping a cold hard-boiled egg onto my plate. Making coffee/tea runs when we felt too restless to stay in the hotel, staying up until two o'clock to talk too loudly. We had it all for three days and nothing seemed like it would ever go wrong again. Even in forty years, I don't think I'll ever say: "gosh, remember our road trip to San Francisco? I wish I could remember everything, but it's such a blur!" because I remember everything. Ripping my pants at the Exploratorium, eating plastic-wrapped sandwiches on a bench, laying in the grass outside Ghiradelli Square, just observing, just being. Dear winter break, please put us on the road again.