MY MOTHER bought us tickets to the US, but they were from Frankfurt to Oakland, California. She said it was the cheapest deal she could find. This did result in some quarrelling. I told her I didn’t want to fly all the way to Oakland and then drive cross country. Over desert sands, mountain peaks, rolling plains? None of that. But the tickets to Oakland were booked.
It was all pre-arranged.
I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t a bad deal. I imagined little Oakland down there, gleaming beneath the silvery wing of the plane, the high bridge over the bay. The friendly taxi drivers, the friendly toll takers, those friendly Hells Angels, et cetera. And didn’t you know that in Oakland some families were now trying to live as they do in the country, keeping their own backyard goats? Hipster dads would disappear with their saucepans to collect the fresh milk.
Something unsettled me about the thing. Tickets acquired, with no input from me. I had to sit on that long flight whether I wanted to or not. A long, lengthy flight over half the world, and all of the North American landmass. “It’s only three hours longer than usual,” she said. I suppose I was going to go, and in the end I did. We packed our things and were off in that big shiny jet.
When we got there, I was dead tired. We checked into a boutique hotel on the corner of Bush and Powell. I had missed the San Francisco Bay. Maybe this wasn’t too bad. And maybe we could fly to New York. No need for a perilous road trip. My daughter slept on the floor, for some reason, and there were two single beds, like in those old Hollywood movies. I was in one bed and my wife slept in the other one. She looked sort of like a young Anu Saagim, during her notorious ’03 milk photoshoot. “Oh, you’re not going to sleep just yet,” she said. “Not without a good …” She climbed out of her bed and into mine with enthusiasm. The last thing I remember is those breasts dangling like fruit, freckles in between. Two freckly warm jugs.
That was all.
north! 