Back to California

I said “I love you” to Oakland as my plane bringing me back to the Bay touched the ground. Those five days in Las Vegas were long, exhausting, and filled with second-hand smoke and bad food. I was dying for fresh vegetables, chicken that had the taste and texture of chicken, and real, breathing people to take my order and serve me, not some machine where I slide my credit card through only to carry a plate around to retrieve my own food.

I had only eaten a grainy Power Bar all day and it was already nearly three. The cab driver let me off in front of my much beloved and dearly missed house. I dropped my bags inside, went to the refrigerator (although I knew there would be nothing to eat in there), and turned back out the doors to find a bite.

I walked a block to Momi Toby’s and ordered a chicken sandwich with pesto and tomato on foccacia with a mixed green salad. I took a seat on the wooden bench against the wall, pulled out my New Yorker to read about a small alleyway in Beijing, and waited for the tall, thin man behind the counter to tell me that my sandwich was ready.

I was so happy to eat. The greens were drizzled with a light, barely tangy dressing that I gobbled up, bite after bite. The sandwich was good too, the chicken having the consistency of chicken, although I questioned the authenticity of the grill marks. The tomato slices tasted fresh and the bread was just soft enough. This was exactly what I wanted.

And, as I sat there finishing my sandwich and reading my magazine, Mike Johnson played overhead, thin, young people filled the café with laptops and caffeine, wind blew and clouds began their thick coverage of the sky. I was glad to have brought my scarf and glad to be home again.