It is Sunday. James and I take Lazlo the dog for a walk around the Panhandle. Lazlo is a good doggy but comes from the wrong neighborhood, or hood. He comes from Pit Bull city. He is exuberant, muscular and very aware of what is going on around him. My first take was, “Get rid of that dog before something bad happens.” but that would have been wrong.
James and Martha have committed to training him correctly, more than I ever managed with the many dogs in my life. He walks to heel on the leash, sits, lies down and is very obedient. He is also affectionate and fun. Good Lazlo.
We then go to the Alemany St market to eat street food and look at the stalls selling everything.
I then drive down through the golden hills that border 280 and through the redwood forest around 17. Big blue skies, Range Rover unhurried V8, deer grazing by the road, Red Tailed Hawks and Turkey Vultures glide around as gangs of Harley executive bandits thunder past me, aaaaaaaaah California.
We play in an Irish bar in the center of Santa Cruz. Some of my favorite people are there.
Old, good friends, Bob and Mary, take me to dinner in a restaurant that overlooks Monterey Bay. We drink champagne and talk hard as the sun goes down. I eat fish ceviche and then scallops, it is better than anything I ate in my last sojourn in France. Thanks Bob and Mary.
Then I swoop back,V8 propelled, to SF, er feeling groovy.