THURSDAY 10:00

Luck prevailed. There was room for one lonely pilgrim. I stuffed my pack in the bus’s compartmentalized belly and surrendered my license to the driver at the door, who wanted to be sure I wasn’t skipping town without paying.

I took a window seat next to a small Mexican man who, every five minutes or so, would peek at the seat in front and check on his family. He turned his head and looked at me when I wasn’t looking and I turned my head and looked at him when he wasn’t looking. This continued for the first half hour of the trip.

My original intention was to crack open a wine bottle and slip into a velvet sleep but the Mexican looked so peaceful and I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression of me. Instead I twirled my hat in circles and smiled that the bus had finally rolled onto the freeway. San Francisco was getting closer by the second. I could almost smell the bay.

A good hour into the ride the Mexican asks me if I speak Spanish. It was my native tongue and he was surprised that I did.

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” he said, “you don’t look latino.”

“Haha. I get that a lot. It must be because I was born in Ohio.”

“Is that were you’re from?”

“No. I lived most of my life in Miami. But now I’m giving California a try.”

“Ah si si. I’m from Mejico. A small town on the West near Acapulco. We don’t have cliff divers, but the beach there is beautiful. What brings you to San Francisco mi amigo?”

“My favorite author, Tim Sparrows. He is having a reading in Corte Madera tomorrow and one near Haight St. on Saturday. I’m going there so he can sign my journal for good luck.”

“Do you write?”

“Yes, I write. I write every single day. It’s a difficult line of work, but it’s the only one I care for. I mean I do have to take various jobs on the side to support myself, but you will never see me as happy as when I have a pen in my hand. Well, when I have a pen or when I’m with her.”

“Hmmm. So there is a chiquita?”

“You can call her that. But she is a long ways away. Unless, of course, I’m writing, then she is right there, in every single word. One day, my friend. One day I’ll look up from the page and see her standing there with her emerald eyes and wise smile.”

“Why aren’t you with her now?”

“Circumstance, my friend. Circumstance. But, enough about me. San Francisco is quite the ride from Mexico, what, pray tell, brings you this far?”

“It is my son. He’s had complications since birth and the hospitals in my country are not that good. We take him to Los Angeles for treatment once a year. I figure since we are already in California then we might as well visit our family in Oakland. We see very little of them.”

“Well I hope everything turns out okay. In a way it always does.”

“I hope so too mi amigo. And good luck with your chiquitica.”

With those final words the small Mexican man looked over the seat to make sure his son was warm. What a great father. I said goodnight and placed the Stetson over my face.