Eighteen
The next evening we stay on the east side of Yosemite National Park. We
have a room in a wooden motel bordering June Lake and by the end of the day we
are overlooking dark trees and azure colored water. When light and dark are
hanging in precise balance, a quiet man crosses the flat stretch of grass in
front of our porch. He peeks into the illuminated little screen of his digital
camera. The water. The silent mountains around it. The pine trees by now have
almost turned black as dark sentries. Now I see what he’s here for. A deep blue
colored bird with a black forelock, about the size of a jackdaw, flies in
circles in the last ray of sunlight that falls on the azure green water. The
blue of its feathers lights up each time it makes a turn, and makes a dark line
on its graceful way back.
The man follows the bird with his camera. To the left. A bit to the
right. Left again. Then he presses. He lowers the camera and looks at the
screen for the result. He hums. He’s got it. Slowly and without noticing us or
saying anything he walks off. The first stars appear.
The next day after the unapproachable granite, the shady pine trees, the
giant sequoias and the many tourists of Yosemite Park we make our last leap to
San Francisco. The transition from nature to city is gradual. First the
mountains get lower, then meadows and orchards appear between the forests and
in the end the road is flat and straight and we drive through strawberry
fields, walnut orchards, olives, cherries, apricots, peaches and grapes. About
every ten or twenty miles there is a village with gas, hamburgers and coffee in
quarter gallon cups. Small size. The houses here are big and well kept. Even
the trailer parks, part of almost every town, are filled with shiny polished
mobile homes. Going west still holds its promises.
Then the orchards too come to an end and the villages, trailer parks,
repair shops, yards with used cars (‘mega sales’) and industrial areas are
joined together and with a shock we stand in front of the first traffic light
in days. Not long after that we get onto Interstate 580 to San Francisco.
A city that right from the start invites one to stay. At driving in on
the two storied Bay Bridge. At the smell of water, salt and fish. At the many
wooden houses, painted in blue, yellow, pink and green. At the fresh air that
wafts off the ocean, thanks to which we can sleep without air conditioning for
the fist time since leaving Denver. Windows open.
In the bay close to our hotel room ships use their foghorns to announce
they’re there. In the street a woman is crying. A man shouts ‘fuck’. Much later
a man sings a song in Spanish. It sounds like something from an opera,
classical, with stretched tones. A beautiful song. For nobody. For everybody.
For himself. The sound comes and goes. Graceful and pure through the silent
night. I hear him sing until he’s beyond reach.
August 2007