I would like to say that there has been little time for writing, but that would be false. Between the moments of ‘doing’ and ‘going’ there were pauses where I could’ve broken from the travels to write, but to be honest with everyone, the last three days wouldn’t allow for it. Memories are meant to be written after the event, not during their creation.
There really wasn’t a plan beyond the room number 446. Maybe wander around the city, bumping shoulders with others, glancing back to make sure that the person that had been five paces behind for the last three blocks was gone. Specifically avoiding all the places that were staples in the past, Tosca, City Lights, and the wharf. Those were connected with old memories, distant friends, acquaintances that are long off in their own lives and trajectories. Room 446, that was to be the only pivot point for the trip.
After only eight hours in the city, we knew that we wanted out, never to come back. Mid morning the next day we crossed out of the city, skittering past Berkeley, out into the countryside of Napa.
In the action of motion and ‘doing’, things happen. New people are met, seen, and experienced. Laughter and smiles come easily with Cabernet and Pinot parsing and staining ones tongue and lips. Not to excess, but within a paced amount that opens the third eye to see what is usually denied or obscured by names and the gravity of money. A farmer that grows grapes, minces few words. A local single mom pouring ½ oz samples of Chardonnay, will tell you her entire basket of troubles and hopes if you listen carefully. The key, is to be still, and allow the noise of a place, the sounds that it gives off to direct and enlighten ones experience.
And then it becomes ones own, it is given a name that makes sense. A personal maker is embedded and buried in the soil, forever tying one to others, to the land. In that, there is a story, something to pass on, to hold to.