The GPS lady seems to be the only person on the planet who does not know the way to San Jose.  As I left San Francisco this afternoon, she routed me to a closed street twice before I began ignoring her.  I followed the detour signs to Highway 101 South; she declared a truce and took my lead.  Smooth sailing got me from San Fran to San Jose in under an hour, at rush hour but against the worst flow.

My extraordinary trip to California found me on a double-decker tour bus with my cousin-in-law Renee, wind whipping through our hair, doubtless with goofy grins on our faces.  We played the tourist, gawking at old Victorians, Alcatraz, and ships at sea.  I closed my eyes and filled my lungs with Eucalyptus in Golden Gate Park and the smell of the 60s in Haight Ashbury.

Every step of the way, I experienced an irresistible pull to California life.  The people stride with a confidence that I can’t recall from Kansas City pedestrians.  They wrap their scarves the way I do; the traffic jams seem easy to navigate.  I can’t explain it.  From the boardwalk at the Pacific Ocean to the construction zone adjacent to Union Square, I felt at home.

I’m not leaving my heart in San Fransisco, though my heart strings do seem to be tugging me westerly.  I feel peaceful here.  But more and more, as I place my crippled feet on the path rising in front of me, I carry my peace with me.  That path winds; it climbs uneven ground; it speeds through tunnels and into the wind.  I am not complaining.  The rushing air feels good against the fragile skin that stretches across my tired bones; it ruffles these tangled curls, and takes my breath away.  I am left radiant and refreshed.