Reading California

I was a bit optimistic, bringing five books with me on vacation. I honestly thought I would absorb Didion in Big Sur, pause over Steinbeck on the way to Monterey. Surely a moment or two with Perrotta in Santa Barbara. But it was not meant to be. I have read absolutely nothing on vacation. Until this morning.

Yesterday I browsed City Lights Bookstore, in search of the spirit of the Beats I had adored so much in high school. Upstairs in the poetry room I picked up the poems of Kenneth Rexroth and tucked it under my arm. Downstairs I thumbed through City Lights' own selection, and pulled down another book that caught my eye: Paul Madonna's All Over Coffee. The obsession with buildings, rooftops, windows, accompanied by the fictionalization of overheard conversations: it was the perfect San Francisco souvenir.

I read the whole thing this morning while The Husband slept.

Didion and Steinbeck will comfort me on the plane ride home. Their California is each bend of the Pacific Coast Highway, the traffic on the 101, Chinatown alleys, and the stretch of inland fields and railroads. But All Over Coffee is San Francisco at its deepest essence for me: sunsets over hills, silhouettes of telephone poles and electrical wires, the curved wood of a neighborhood turret.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.