What is so special about a Coffee House in a place like North Beach? It is special.
12.
For some strange reason when it rains, I walk to Café Trieste on Grant Street, a stone’s throw from Broadway. I’ve passed by there since ’66 when I wore caramel colored bellbottoms — with vanilla stripes. Across the street, there was a record store. They had the first Santana album. Of course, I bought it. Just didn’t have the turntable. The air, the atmosphere, the astral particles were the thing. Not the politics or the government rap. Not even questions on power. It was something else. A little bit like Donut Land at midnight. A different quantum molecules where everything happens and moves at the same time on your table. Your life, your lives.
Frank Listens. Then we talk about Franco Brusati’s’ latest film, Chocolate. Tomorrow, we will strut down University Ave in Palo Alto and hit the movies again. I moved into Frank’s dorm a week ago. It’s a long story. We fry steaks at midnight. Chow on mama Lucy’s Arroz con Leche.
Everything happens at midnight. In the morning, Frank Wilma reads ten newspapers. On the floor, wrapped in a sarape, I think about homework at Stanford and everything and nothing.
I am moving back to the studio. Back to the City.
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