Cindy-Lou Dale

It was my last night in San Francisco and it was too hot to sleep so I took myself for a drive. In the mist smudged darkness of first light I headed towards one of the hills overlooking San Francisco Bay. On route I stopped at a steamy diner for coffee where huddled clusters of night workers were bundled into the booths. I sat at the counter beside a lone man under a cowboy hat, lost in daydreams with a cup of coffee and an unlit Camel cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The waitress approached to take my order, first lifting a passed-out patrons head up by his hair to give the counter a wipe with a damp cloth.

Cup of rocket fuel in hand, I leaned up against the nose of my Mustand SVT and looked at the spread of fairyland golden lights before me; they unrolled up into the hills and around the expansive bay. The chill in the air brought with it mist which was settling cosily over the city, like a white shawl around one’s shoulders.

The Golden State, I thought, has always done things differently. Here you can be whatever you want, however and whenever you choose. After all, it only required Charlize Theron to have a tantrum in a bank (who refused to cash a South African cheque) for her to catch the eye of an agent.