The guy working the desk at the Fort Mason hostel had a confusing little speech habit. He said no the way others use okay or um-hum.
Me: A reservation for Christensen?
Him (looking at monitor): Christensen… No. First name?
Me (worried): Alan.
Him (nodding): No. One night?
Him (nodding more): No. Your ID please…
Me (shifting confusedly from one foot to the other): …?…
Him: You’re in Room 1, Bed 12. Here’s your pass, no.
Maybe he was being clairvoyant, knowing I’d abandon the hostel because of the snorer.
It’s expected the wind will howl in the desert in the winter, with van-shaking gusts up to fifty miles per hour. What’s not expected (at least by me) is wind like that slamming out of the north at the beach on an October evening.
When they’re harvesting garlic, the area around Gilroy CA smells like a good Italian restaurant.
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