Indian Summer

Yesterday we drove in tandem to the East Bay to drop off a car for Derek the helicopter operator, then across the Bay Bridge to have dinner with Felix and Will. The sun was just setting and the whole bay was glowing, each ridge of mountains paler and softer than the one before, and it shone clear through the city buildings. When we got to the Mission we parked where we could and walked to Felix's place, past little bodegas, garages with men playing cards, teenagers patiently throwing a ball for little children, a girl doing her homework on an outside table of a makeshift little cafe, and everywhere delicious cooking smells, low conversation and laughter. It was like the Platonic ideal of inner-city living, with an occasional whiff of sewage to keep us grounded.

Felix had made spicy basil Thai chicken and we had a delicious meal by candlelight, and left quite early since today will be full. The magic of the evening flowed right through the open jeep; people on the streets, the air warm and soft until we reached the Golden Gate and the fresh salt of the open ocean. Down the long hill past Sausalito bay laurel and pine, in the flats of Strawberry rosemary and lavender, sharp eucalyptus coming over the hill to Corte Madera then the sea smell stronger as we came into San Rafael, the air cooler along the point until we came to our own familiar seaweed and low tide.