The Line for the Bathroom

I was in San Francisco visiting with friends last week; on Saturday, we spent a glorious day at the Farmers' Market. We wandered for a couple of hours testing olive oil and eggplant and peaches. We wondered at the freshness of the melon and the olives, and the friendliness of the farmers. The sun was shining and our east coast selves seethed with envy at this abundance. The snacking make us hungry; so we sought out lunch.

I finished my roasted tomato soup and needed to visit the ladies room. As I approached, I was dismayed at the line. Again? A long line at the bathroom? It was gorgeous and sunny out and I did not want to be in a line in the dank interior. No choice, though. I took my place and noticed the woman in front of me.

She was wearing a familiar shirt: American Cancer Society Relay for Life. Purple print on white. “I was in the Relay earlier this year,” I told her. “This is my first Relay as a survivor,” she said. “Me too,” I told her. Our eyes locked and that indescribable moment happened; it's happened to me before. I know what you are going through and you know what I am going through. Relief, and the need to talk. I then found out that the Relay was occurring there and then in San Francisco. She was taking a quick bathroom break. When you're going through chemotherapy, a bathroom line is a joy. It's real life.

I never found out her name. We acknowledged the beauty of the day. We each have 2 sons and 1 daughter. Isn't every day we are here magnificent? We walked out of the bathroom together.

“What's your name,” she asked. I told her. “With a 'Ch?' I will light a luminaria in your honor.” The sobbing begins; it happens often. I'm still not used to it.

A long bathroom line can be a good thing.

San Francisco

I am leaving on a trip to San Francisco with friends this week. I've just started thinking about what to pack: Can I do it all in a carry-on (answer: no, not with my lotions and potions and general liquid requirements), how many electronics cords do I need (ipod charger, camera charger, cell phone charger, kindle charger), how many pairs of glasses (regular eyeglasses, prescription sunglasses, regular sunglasses, sport sunglasses, reading glasses), and oh god the shoes (for airplane, for walking, for running, for nightime).

I'm also remembering the last and only time I visited San Francisco. It was 11 years ago and we flew into the city on our way to a long weekend in Sonoma County. That time in Sonoma was the first time I ever thought I could live somewhere other than the Boston environs. (That thought has changed dramatically over the past few years. But that's a whole different post for a future time.) It was late September and the northern California nights are what I remember most. One night, we attended a barrel tasting at the Rodney Strong wine vineyard. The sky was not quite black even at 10 PM; layers of blue mingled with the nightime stars. Our host, hoping to sell us oodles of cases, took us away from the barrels and the people and up among the vines themselves. We plucked grapes and popped them into our mouths reveling in the way the juices flowed down our chins. I had a white top on and didn't care one bit when cabernet-colored stains dotted the front, right around 2 of the buttons. We didn't buy oodles of cases but we bought a few.

We only spent a few hours in the city itself on our way home; we drove up and down some hills, parked with great difficulty near Fisherman's Wharf, took some photos of cable cars and called it a day. I'm glad to be going back.