Drive

We would just get into the car and drive. It was a great thing to do when things were getting you down. Sometimes we didn't even know where to go. We would just drive. When we lived in Manhattan Beach, there was always ocean. Up to Paradise Cove past Malibu on Sundays. Or down to Abalone Cove past Palos Verdes, the green hills, the red tile roofs on a holiday weekend Monday. You could find something pretty and hopeful, better than the bad mood you left home.

It was easier to talk to him when he was looking straight out at the road. You could say almost anything and you knew he had to keep his eyes on the road. You could say the tough things. You could say funny things. You could see his smile start to erupt and then a grin, but only on the right side of his face. Even going south on the 405 towards San Diego, stopping off at Oceanside for pancakes for dinner, it was always better than getting all worked up about something that would probably change by the next day anyway.

And then when we came east, we would drive from Boston to Crane Beach by Ipswich. There was a place one winter day up by Glouchester, a bricky bistrot, warm with hot cider inside, as a helluva storm blew up the coast outside. He explained the word "bistro" was Russian -- it mean "fast." But we weren't going fast that day, just taking our time. It was always better to just drive.