The air tonight smelled like chimneys and dinner and rain and sea. A christmas tree in a shop window sparkled magically in pastels and gold. Rows of old Victorians were lit up bright enough to bust the power grid. It was a treat to be in the passenger seat for a change, window down, feeling the air on my face, inhaling deeply the sensory experience that is my city.
N drove through the grove of hundred-year-old eucalyptus trees that felt like a fairytale wonderland. How unreal it is, the way tree trunks grow from the ground in rows, fractal branches reaching for the heavens.
Everything looked new to me as if I was seeing it for the first time. The bridge, the park, the pet cemetery, the people cemetery, the bowling alley L and I went to, an inviting new lodge with soaring ceilings filled with people, the bay, the bearded man smiling in the liquor store, the people running in the rain carrying yoga mats, the woman running on her treadmill in her apartment window, the giant peace sign, the synagogue's rosette stained glass window, the brown classic car, the man pumping gas in bright yellow harem pants, the woman in the crosswalk in psychedelic leggings, the brick houses with blue-potted plants, the tapas restaurant, the wild fennel growing out of the sidewalk blowing each time a car drove past, the rock climbing gym, the trampoline gym with disco lights, the bicyclists covered head-to-toe in rainbow lights, the windshield wipers' rhythm wiping away the sky's beautiful shiny tears.
I was feelin it all. Can you tell?
The city still smells like the day I arrived wide-eyed, dreamy and hopeful about creating a new life. I felt a little bit like that again tonight.
While gazing out the window I recalled the way my grandpa told the story of when his mom died when he was 16, and in his grief announced to his father that he was going to run away. His dad replied, "I'll run away with you." My grandpa was an old man when he told this story, but he still choked up at that part. His dad, a train conductor, saved up money and took a month or two off to travel by train across the country with his son, to outrun grief, together.
7:38 p.m. - 2022-12-08