Road trip

Incessant beeping echoes inside the Prius. “Brakes” glows red on the dashboard. Music attempts to overpower it. A paper bag, handless from City Light books rests on the passenger seat, two paperbacks inside. A mustard jacket, blue silky scarf and black purse crowd the rest of the seat, a fifty ounce marble colored water bottle on its side. On the floor a large red and black woven book bag, loaded up with more books and a Macbook. 

I don’t travel light.

I make a pit stop at a Shell gas station in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by miles of fields. It’s hot out, a merciless ninety-three degrees, the sun still blaring at five p.m. I fill up the gas tank, peel off the wrap cardigan and make a picnic out of the trunk. Peanut butter sandwiches. I reach for the water bottle but it’s empty. I’m three hours away, three hours behind me.

I pull off the boots, slip into my Birks. I had anticipated chilly overcast San Francisco today but as the locals proclaimed amongst themselves, hands stretched out as if to embrace the foreign sunshine: the weather! 

I had fun in San Francisco. I left my lazy six one three motel room around  ten a.m. and arrived to the City around eleven. Upon arriving at the Golden Gate, gazing up at the billowing fog, hiding the base of the bridge from view, I cried out with pure joy. I had missed this beautiful city as one would miss a childhood home, stuffed with memories. San Francisco is my childhood home. I conquered my fear of driving up those steep hills, lurching up one after another, placing trust in the brakes. I’m scaling the hills, I proclaimed outloud, at another stop sign. I parked by Filmore Street, wandered into the Peet’s, picked up a latte and wrote outside, drinking in the neighborhood and friendly banter of the locals. The air of familiarity and community. I drove up the street to the Whole Foods on California. It’s compact, the parking lot suited for about a dozen cars. I picked up a coconut yogurt and a loaf of a childhood favorite: Judy’s bread which can only be found in the Bay Area. I sat outside in the sunshine on the patio looking out. A group of three friends crossed the street, carrying a case of beer. She had on boots that hit her thighs. He wore a cut off tank top and shades. A woman with dangling turquoise orbits from her ears joined me on the patio, having a sushi lunch. Sitting out there, I felt filled.

I rounded off the trip with a stop at City Light Books. I wandered the neighborhood first, passing the markets, all the fruit laid out, a massive plastic bag of walnuts ready to be picked. I walked up Columbus in my boots, past all the diners outside the cafes, laughing, leaning in for intense discussion. A lone woman sat outside a creamery, savoring an ice cream sandwich, a Peet’s coffee also on the table. She looked to be a student. Still I walked on. Inside City Lights, about a dozen browsers study the shelves. A couple, break the library quiet, exclaimed to one another their finds, pointing out which books they had already read and whether or not they liked them. They insisted on buying each other books, she felt guilty about her stack of finds, he was dismissive of this guilt and insisted. They didn’t yet know each other’s tastes and literature preferences so I assumed they were a new couple. I studied each and every shelf, coming in with an open mind, as opposed to a list. I picked up the Idiot, I had noticed it around, a relatively new release and on most “Staff Recommends” end aisles. It sounded interesting and promised humor so I held onto it for the rest of the visit. Finally I also settled on one of Elena Ferente’s novels. Her most recent book has been buzzing about the book loving communities, one review proclaiming her to be one of the greatest writers of this generation. I select The Days of Abandonment. It sounded painful and deeply introspective and honest, all things I’m in favor of when it comes to writing. I wandered upstairs to the Beat section, taking in the work of Kerouac, Burroughs, Cassidy and Joyce Johnson. I added a mental note of books that I intend to read in the near future once I’ve again conquered my current stack. Downstairs, I picked up Billie Holiday’s autobiography and thumb through it, hearing her voice narrate in my head. I stick to the two books in my hand, paid and head out. I make it back home around nine p.m. tired and aching from all the driving but filled from the adventure. I think about On the Road and decide to pen about this mini road trip.