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----- anne: i had the nightmare again.
me: which one?---------------
--------- anne: the one where i'm on a cruise.
--- me: that doesn't sound so bad.
anne: in the eighties.---------
me: oh! God!-------------------
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joyce: i never understood why we can't lose our patience.
someone tell me what i'm supposed to be saving it for.
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I've been driving for days through the desert. I love the desert, I'm from the desert, but when we stare at at each other too long over the dash I remember the part about woman being made in a garden.
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This was why I thought I loved California, when I saw her dryness change into sloping hills, into vineyards. I'd decided on sight that I already loved her outdated Route 66 motel signs dotting the highway, her farmer's markets. And when I crossed over the water in San Francisco, I felt bouyant, the same way I did the first time I rode a plane, and I laughed out loud like a child. I was pretty sure I loved California for that.
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But when I finally reached the end, when I turned off my car and opened the door to Petaluma, I thought- no. I don't love any of those things. What I love is this air.
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I love the way it smells, the hint of the ocean it carries, the green riding in it. I can taste the fields it floated over, the sea it came from. It crowds out all other thought.
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I had to laugh again, because of the way it cleared my head, the way it made me feel. Like it could sustain me more than the dry air of the desert. More than the ocean air, thick and velvety. This was air that had what I needed most.
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This is party air. It makes me want to eat tacos, drink beer, smile at strangers. It makes me want to sleep outside and wake up early. I already feel taller.
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I had to share this with someone, anyone. My pool of contacts was limited, having been in the city for three minutes. You have wonderful air, I told the hotel concierge.
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I didn't expect much of a reaction, but he looked directly at me, smiled, and said, Yeah. I know what you mean.
