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A perfect day in the city always starts like this: The fountains are thick with black swans imported from Siberia, and if it is a fine day and a weekend there will be wedding parties, almost entirely Asian. The grooms wear smart gray pinstripe suits and the women are in beaded gowns so beautiful they make your teeth hurt just to look at them.

Leo is an architect, and his relationship to all the most beautiful buildings in this city is astonishing given his age, only five years older than me. The house Leo built for himself is like a Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy tale, all towers and angles, and the last wild peacock in Berkeley lives on his street. I rented it because the ad said this: Dogs welcome, of course. You never know when I might get overwhelmed by a desire to go to the pound.

Leo reads me a poem about a salt marsh at dawn while I set up my old Leica. Then I read Leo a poem about longing in Syracuse. This is how we have always spoken to each other, Leo and I, and it would be the most romantic thing this century except that Leo is in love with Guenevere. Guenevere is a Buddhist weaver who lives in a clapboard house on Belvedere Island. She makes cloth on a loom she brought back from Tibet. Air conditioning, she says, is just one of the things she does not allow herself.

That Guenevere seems not to know Leo is alive causes him no particular disappointment, and that she forgets—each time she meets him—that she has met him several times before only adds to what he calls her charming basket of imperfections. The only Buddha I could love, he says, is one who is capable of forgetfulness and sin.

Guenevere is in love with a man in New York City who told her in a letter that the only thing better than three thousand miles between him and the object of his desire would be if she had a terminal illness. She showed me the words as if to make sure they existed, though something in her tone made me think she was proud. They come, Leo says, as if from the Columbia House Record Club, once a month like clockwork, in a plain cardboard wrapper, no return address and no name.

Across the swan-bearing lake a wedding has just reached its completion. The groom is managing Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy look utterly solemn and completely delirious with joy at the same time. Leo and I watch the kiss, and I snap the shutter just as the kiss ends and the wedding party bursts into applause. The flower girl across the lake is throwing handfuls of rose Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy straight up in the air.

I came to this city near the ocean over a year ago because I recently spent a long time under the dark naked water of the Colorado River and I took it as a sign that the river wanted me away.

I thought there might be an order to the city: I pointed myself west down the endless two Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy of highway 50—The Loneliest Road in America say the signs that rise out of the desert on either side of it—all the way across Utah and Nevada to this white Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy city on the Bay.

I got drunk on the city at first the way some people do on vodka, the way it lays itself out as if in a nest of madronos and eucalyptus, the way it sparkles brighter even than the sparkling water that surrounds it, the way the Golden Gate reaches out of it, like fingers, toward the wild wide ocean that lies beyond. I loved the smell of fresh blueberry muffins at the Oakland Grill down on Third and Franklin, the train whistle sounding right outside the front door, and tattooed men of all colors unloading crates of cauliflower, broccoli and peas.

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One night in the Tenderloin I rounded a corner and met a guy in a wheelchair head on who aimed himself at me and covered me with urine. Baptized, I said to my horrified friends the next day, anointed with the nectar of the city gods. He left it double-parked in front of the Castro Theater, talked a family in the Mission into trading work for floor space, changed his name to Gordon, Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy his age from 15 to 20 and applied for a grant to study South American literature at San Francisco State.

He had his Ph.

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When he won his first teaching award his mother was in the audience; when their eyes met she nodded her approval, but when he looked for her afterwards, she was nowhere to be found. I remember a bumper sticker I saw once in Haines, Alaska, near the place where the ferries depart for the lower forty-eight: Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy last woman Leo called the love of his life only let him see her twice a week for three years.

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She was a cardiologist who lived in the Marina who said she spent all day with broken hearts and she had no intention of filling her time off with her own.

At the start of the fourth year, Leo asked her to raise the number of dates to three times a week, and she immediately broke things off. Leo went up on the Bridge Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy that. This was before they put the phones in, the ones that go straight to the counselors.

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It was a sunny day and the tide was going out, making whitecaps as far as he could see into the Pacific. After a while he came down, not because he felt better but Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy of the way the numbers fell out. There had been so far that year. There are policemen at the Palace grounds Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy handing out information about how we can protect ourselves from an epidemic of car-jackings that has been taking place in the city for the last five months.

Please follow me to the nearest convenience store. Before Gordon I had always dated the strong silent types, I think so I could invent anything I wanted to go on in their heads.

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It took me less than half a baseball season to discover my oversight: Gordon had a jealous streak as vicious as a heat-seeking missile and he could make a problem out of a paper bag.

Before—you know—you become unwilling. Guenevere keeps a bowl of cards on her breakfast table between the sugar and the coffee. They are called Angel Cards and she bought Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy at the New Age store.

Each card has a word printed on it: That morning I picked balance, with a little angel perched in the center of a teeter totter, and when Guenevere reached in for her own word she sighed in disgust. Without looking at the word again, without showing it to me, she put the card in the trashcan and reached to pick another. I went to the trashcan and found it. The word was Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy, and the angel was looking upwards with her arms outstretched.

Guenevere brought me a cookie and a big box of Kleenex. There is only the event and the lessons learned from it. She corrected my pronunciation gently and constantly: When I was twenty-five years old I brought home to my parents a boy named Jeffrey I thought I wanted to marry. He was everything I believed my father wanted: He had an MBA from Harvard. He had patches on the elbows of his sportcoats. He played golf on a course that only allowed men.

Jeffrey let my father show him decades worth of tennis trophies. He played the piano while my mother sang her old torch songs. I waited until I had a minute alone with my father.

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After that I went back to dating mechanics and river guides. I liked to linger there after the movie finished, watch the credits and the artificial stars in the ceiling.

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That Tuesday I was the last person to step out of the theater into a chilly and deserted night. I had one foot off the curb when the man approached me, a little too close for comfort even then.

I had scraped the bottom of my purse to put together enough quarters, nickels and dimes to get into the movie, and the guy behind the glass had let me in thirty-three cents short. I said I was sorry and headed for the parking lot. I should have gotten my keys out before I left the theater, I thought. He flinched, changed the angle of his body, just slightly back and away.

And when he did, when his eyes dropped from mine to his hand holding whatever it was in his jacket pocket, I was reminded of a time I almost walked into a female grizz with a nearly grown Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy.

We could both go on our way. While he considered this I took the last steps to my car and got in. By Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy Leo and I have seen one too many happy couples get married and we drive over the Golden Gate and to Tiburon to a restaurant called Guymos where we drink margaritas made with Patron tequila and eat ceviche appetizers and look out on Angel Island and the city—whitest of all from this perspective, rising like a mirage out of the blue green bay.

We watch the ferry dock and unload the suburbanites, then load them up again for the twice-hourly trip to the city. We are jealous of their starched shirts and brown loafers, how their clothes seem a testament to the balance in their lives.

The fog rolls over and down the lanyard side of Mt. I was in a mood, you know, Gordon and I had a fight about John Lennon. I told him to be sure and use that line again. When I was four years old and with my parents in Palm Beach, Florida, I pulled a seven-hundred-pound cement urn off Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy pedestal and onto my legs, crushing both femurs. All the other urns on Worth Avenue had shrubs in them trimmed into the shapes of animals, and this one, from my three-foot point of view, appeared to be empty.

The urn was empty, of course, and waiting to be repaired, which is why it toppled over onto me.

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My father rolled it off with some of that superhuman strength you always hear about and picked me up—I was screaming bloody murder—and held me until the ambulance came. The next six weeks were the best of my childhood.

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I was hospitalized the entire time, surrounded by doctors who brought me presents, nurses who read me stories, candy stripers who came to my room and played games. I spent the remaining years of my childhood fantasizing about illnesses and accidents that I hoped would send me to the hospital again. One day last Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy Gordon asked me to go backpacking at Point Reyes National Seashore, to prove to me, he said, that he could take an interest in my life.

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Gordon borrowed a backpack, got the permit, freed the weekend, studied the maps. I was teaching a Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy workshop in Corte Madeira on Saturday. A long second day would take us to the beach, the point with the lighthouse, and back to the car with no time again to spare before dark.

I had learned by then how to spot trouble coming and that morning I waited in the car with Gordon while first one man, way too young for me and then another, way too old entered the warehouse where my workshop was going to be held. I got out of the car without seeing the surfer, tall and blond and a little breathtaking, portfolio under the arm that usually held the board. I kept my eyes away from his but his handshake found me anyway.

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When he held the big door open I went on through. I could hear the screech of tires behind me through what felt like a ton of metal.

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Forghedaboudit: pizza worthy of a road trip - See traveler reviews, candid I plan to load my friends in the truck at the soonest possible date and trek the 4 If you find yourself near Deming N.M. exit the highway and stop in for a meal opinion of a TripAdvisor member and not of TripAdvisor LLC. Cat G. Deming. 16 Apr Domino's Pizza workers who filmed revolting video of themselves abusing takeaway food Cat dating profile pepperoni express hwy charged by police.

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