Going to California, even for two days, will make you think that there is an alternate version of your live that includes living in a white clay house with bougainvilla climbing up the walls, driving top down on the 10 while taqueria smell and sunscreen essence hit both sides of your nose, and in which your career consists of “having meetings” outside at wicker tables, wearing cocktail dresses, and also listening to every joni mitchell recording ever made.
And then you get back to blackberries and freezing fingertips and eight cups of coffee and bosses who say, “I hope you know you should be expensing your no-doze.” And you wouldn’t want it any other way.
