The morning visit to the Infectious Disease Department at Stanford went so well that I decided to take the rental car to Los Altos to Know Knew Books.  Unsurprising that I would want to find a used bookstore, I’m sure.  My route took me through foothills, winding alongside neighborhoods with towering palm trees and strange vegetation; and people on bicycles everywhere I went.  The road ended in a public parking garage at the back of a humongous Safeway like none I’ve seen in the tame Midwest.

At the bookstore, I found a volume on screenwriting which I snagged for my son and several intriguing old mysteries, including  a John Dickson Carr which, unbelievably, I had not read.  After making my purchases, I asked the cashier about somewhere that I might have lunch.  She and the manager abandoned their distractions — working a puzzle for her, flirting with customers for him — and wracked their brains.  They suggested the Mexican place across the street, the salad bar at the pizza joint, or the deli at Safeway.  “Or you could walk over to Main Street,” they added, looking doubtful.

I headed in the direction of Main Street but halfway there, saw a sign that said “Coffee, Breakfast, Lunch”.  That seemed promising, so I hauled my books, my computer, and my sorry little butt into a storefront small enough to have its own sitcom.  A broadly smiling woman named Julie told me to sit anywhere and by the way, did I want to try her home-made split pea soup?

You bet I did.

Julie laughed as she told me she just made it this morning at 5:30 a.m. right here in this kitchen, with a broad wave towards a window from which a man nodded, confirming.  “Vegetarian,” she insisted.  “Organic peas, local.”  I placed her accent, black hair, diminutive frame, and almond eyes as Chinese but did not ask.  I  ordered the soup, bottomless Peet’s coffee, and a grilled cheese, gluten be damned.

Ten minutes into the most delicious pea soup I’ve ever had, a woman in her sixties with short, thinning hair dyed black entered the restaurant.  She slid into a chair a the counter and ordered the soup.  She and Julie talked about hairdressers for a few minutes, then she asked, “Where are they?” Julie shrugged.  “Late, late.  But they will be here.”  I continued eating my soup, having no wi-fi to provide a distraction.  A few minutes later, Julie’s face beamed towards the window.  “Here they come!” she announced, and turned to take two mugs off a back ledge and place them on the counter, with fresh cups of ice water, silverware, and napkins.

I looked at the sign on my table which admonished me to ask for water if I wanted it.  “We conserve water to benefit our community,” the sign announced.  Whoever approached the place must be special indeed, since Julie, our hostess and the long-time owner of the Village Pantry, did not wait for their request.

She saw me noticing what she was doing and told me, “These two are very special customers. They are in their 70s but they are newlyweds.”  She gestured.  “They have their own cups.”  Indeed, the mugs at their places sported pictures of an older couple, radiant, happy.

The couple which entered can only be described as adorable:  Miriam and John, who told me that they had been married for six years.  His wife died; then her husband.  Julie had told John, “I know a woman who lost her mate, you would like her.”  She introduced the two of them over breakfast, and they realized that John had gone to high school with Miriam’s late husband.  They fell in love and married on Valentine’s day in 2009.  I stood at the counter talking with them, feeling the bond between them.  They let me take their picture, shrugging slightly as though to say, “We don’t know why you would want to, but you certainly may.”

After lunch I found the Neuro-Science Clinic behind the massive construction of its replacement, opening November 2015.  I navigated the barricade to the make-shift entrance.  At the concierge desk sat the same young man who set up Uber on my phone in December.  He shocked me by breaking out in a radiant grin before I could even speak.  “You’re back!” he exclaimed.  “Did you Uber here?  Was your son impressed that you learned how to Uber?”

I sank into a guest chair in front of him.  I read his name tag:  Joseph Newton.  “I can’t believe you remember me,” I replied.  He shook his head.  “You made an impression on us, ma’am.”  I could have sat in that chair all afternoon, talking to this young man, finding out how he came to be so generous of spirit.  Must have had a wonderful mother.

I told him I had a rental car this time and that I’d gone to the coast to see the ocean.  I shook his hand and gave him one of my pens.  “If you ever need a friend in Kansas City, you’ve got one,” I told him, and he gestured with my pen, smiling, telling me he would not forget.  He shook my hand again and I felt a little bit of California magic linger behind as I turned the corner to the elevators.

Then I went up to the Neuro-Science Clinic, where a doctor looked over all the notes about me, asked a million questions, and repeatedly shook his head, as though the answers did not make sense.  I spent an hour with him, working through the realities of my life.  Together, we formulated a plan so that I could live to be 103, just as I promised my son I would do, all those many years ago, when we were both young.