Pedicures and the City

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Had the most fabulous time in the Bay Area hanging out with Erica and Ann Marie, the perfect 24 hour R&R. Rendezvoused at Erica's office, a gorgeous brick building on the corner of Pacific and Montgomery which she shares with the finance boys. Took in the view from the billionaire's office: Tibetan prayer flags floating against the TransAmerica pyramid. Walked down through North Beach and the sad carnival that is lower Market to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art where we took in the Gerhart Richter exhibit, then trotted back to Maiden Lane where we had pedicures at adjacent stations, sipping tea and giggling over nail-polish colors while silent Vietnamese hand maidens labored over our toes. It would take an entire hour for the polish to dry, they told us, so we kept our spa flip-flops on and eschewing taxis, walked up the steep hill to the Ritz Carleton. Dry sherry for Erica, a martini for Ann Marie and an Old Fashioned for me (Marybeth is really the only person I ever go drinking with and I seem to have internalized her taste for bourbon.) Agile pianist turning Adelaide's Lament from Guys and Dolls into a kind of Chopin nocturne. Cut back through Chinatown alleys to the financier's building to pick up Erica's car (late model BMW, which she drives like Mario Androtti with one hand on the wheel and one hand on the gear shift.) Back to Ann Marie's house to pick up her extremely pleasant husband.

Ann Marie lives in a doll house that architecturally is very reminiscent of the house where we lived in East Oakland — except being on the top of Bernal Hill, her house is probably worth more than half a million dollars. She is married to a very pleasant, funny guy named Tim who works in sound engineering for post-film-production. He handed me a DVD of Antwone Fisher -- "I have absolutely no interest in watching this, and they sent me two — you want it? Just be discrete if you decide to auction it off on EBay."

I'd forgotten that I could have so much fun being effortlessly charming. That there were people who enjoyed listening to me babble. We went to dinner at a funky little restaurant with terrific food, and talked about politics and art and books. I was in heaven.

Later Erica drove me to pick up my car and I followed her through the twisting dark streets on to the freeway and over to Berkeley.

I'd forgotten how much I love Berkeley. The pretty little quirky houses, the whimsical retail. The night was very cold and bright, and I got lost on the twisty maze of streets that lead up the side of Grizzly Peak and somehow found myself near San Lorenzo Avenue where I lived with Bill when we were first married, and where Max spent his earliest years. I'd lived so long in Berkeley, I would have expected the street map to have become internalized, a grid overlain on top of my neurons. But instead, it was as though I was a complete stranger. I got very lost.

Erica has completely remodeled the house she inherited from Gil. It's a dream house now — the world's most perfect view, light and airy rooms, Himalayan art and orchids in full bloom everywhere. My admiration for her continues to grow and grow. How did she know back then how to make all the right choices, the choices that would bring her this??