We Love Our Bread, We Love Our Butter. But Most of All ...

 I went to sleep one night in Buenos Aires and woke up the next morning in Berkeley.

Wearing all my light-weight long sleeves at once, and brr-ing against the brisk spring air, I walked down the curving hill roads as San Francisco, so small, peeked out from under the fog in the distance. 

On the corner of Claremont there was a small unmarked bakery, which stayed open every day until the bread ran out. I sat, sipping coffee across the street, and watched as the people took stiff loaves of sourdough into their hands. Kids pressed their faces against the warm glass. They curled up their noses when their parents chose pumpernickel.

I'd thrown off these comforts willingly and had set off for an experience where nothing was mine - not the bed I slept on, or the language I spoke. Nothing could be revisited, or could carry on to the next destination.

But here, I found myself fantasising about the soft yellow glow of windows in the evening. The woman with the brown hair loosely braided down her back, baguette tucked into her bag; was she cooking bolognese for dinner?

It is in the ashes of our former selves that we begin again. 

And here I am, one year later, buying bread for dinner.

[ (1) photo by me, words by Paulo Coelho (title allusion) Madeline (p.s) No one describes San Francisco better than Dave Eggers  | More on my adventures in Argentina | searching for direction, in life and South America  |  My big realization on what we carry with us, in our backpacks and our hearts]