Just yesterday, we returned from our first odyssey back to to the east coast. SFO was chilly, but bustling with the energy of San Francisco and the self actualization missions of every single San Franciscans and their copious visitors. The ritual of BART mediated translocation proceeded with its usual mix of solemnity and joyous impatience, accompanied by the holy shrieking choir of wheels against rails in the trans bay tube, and assorted other subterranean venues. The train ride from Richmond to Sacramento was beautiful and fascinating, mitigated by our neurotic anticipation of re-entry into the fray of our lives here, but cheerily whispering its portent of impending jank as our weary gaze caught abandoned boats, cars, and farm equipment. As we stepped out of the train into the heat of Sacramento in the late afternoon sun, we were dazzled and jarred awake by the heat and intensity of the place we live. Like lizards on a rock, we basked in the warmth that we had left behind.
Our ride appeared, in a faded white 81 Datsun B210 with a suitably cracked dashboard, and some tangled wiring where the radio once might have been. As we squeezed ourselves into the vehicle, one which truly fits the label "compact", and its fake leopard skin covered seats, we felt bathed a warm, dusty, familiarity. Our lovable, burly driver, and friend, Damon, chattered about recent Sacramento trivium, and regaled us with tales of his recent adventures in the more northerly regions of the state, and we truly felt welcomed. Welcomed back to this janky town we call home.
