The 43

I rode the bus for two hours yesterday, the 28, the 43--jumping on at 19th and Taravale, off at Lombard and Filmore, on at Lombard and Divisadero, off at Masonic and Hayes in the hopes of a mirrored plateau for an upcoming nuptual.

I see everything on the bus, or everything I want anyway: the fog sweeping across the bay, little Chinese women with tasseled loafers and grocery carts, Parisian teenagers, surfers, Berkeley intellectuals, a sweet British couple, homeless men with shaggy hair who hound you for the empty water bottle at your feet.

The 43 is The Great Equalizer--a moment of agitated entropy when vegan and meat eater, rag doll and vagrant brush each other with every twist of the Presidio.

And even if you're afraid for your safety, for your belongings, for the preservation of your personal space, the 43 is throwing you into chaos, begging you to surrender as you roll up the hill. And sometimes, that's just what you need in the afternoon--a native surprise for two dollars flat.

Cloud Diary

"We wanted 24-hour room service. We wanted direct-dial telephones. We wanted to stay on the road forever."

I finished "The White Album" somewhere over America, dusty plains wrinkled like leather 200 feet below, with the curious feeling that Didion had intuited my need for her tale. This cloud diary about California, the mystical West, crab salad, and asparagus vinaigrette--wasn't this the life I would soon be living? Air crackling mysteriously in foreign locals, rotary telephones, dollar store rosaries hung from San Francisco windows?

I tore through my airplane cookies and airplane tea, savoring the American stills below our aircraft, drumming my fingers on the tray table, not sure of anything.

When we touched down in San Francisco, I closed my $2.89 volume and stowed it safely in my bag. "Good luck," the blonde next to me said. "I've never been to California."

I smiled, 24-hour room service waiting on my doorstep.