4 Years and 2,000 Miles Apart

I awake to the rooster’s crow. The sun has barely begun peaking over the horizon and it is time to start the day. 

I climb down from my loft on bamboo rungs and stand bleary-eyed on the floor of the open-air hut I share with my roommate.  She is still asleep and I can scarcely make out her form through the white of the mosquito net that covers her bed.

I grab my toothbrush, face soap and washcloth and make my way out of our home.  I walk barefoot, treating my soles to a plethora of various sensations - the rough of the gravel driveway, the wet cold of the stone steps leading to the Tiki House, the dusty grit of the cement just before the main house.  I slide open the bathroom door and wash up for the morning.

As I head back to our hut, I pass Emily on the path.  Her baby blue eyes are still filled with sleep and her mouse-brown hair is wild and unkempt. She smiles her warm radiant smile and I return one of my own.

Back in our room, I throw on a new tank top, skirt and flip-flops. In the Tiki House, I pour myself a bowl of cereal and eat on the cushions of the large bay window.  Yves, the tall skinny Swiss-French young man with messy black hair and a crooked smile, is grabbing his breakfast out of the toaster oven and humming along to the Elvis song streaming from the old 80’s style tape/CD combo player in the corner.

As I walk to Kutira’s house, where I will spend my working hours creating spreadsheets and marketing our spiritual retreat, the dew on the grass wets my toes.  I crest the top of the hill and overlook the deep blue ocean.  The sun slowly inches up from the horizon.  The temperature is just over 70 degrees at 8AM.

I breathe one last breath of the fresh Maui air before I disappear into her home.

The daily grind.

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It is dark when I awaken. My phone vibrates my alarm and I reach over to switch it off. My brain reels as it transitions from my erratic dreamscapes to the soft reality of my bed. Josh has already risen and I hear him in the bathroom - running water as he shaves his face. 

I shower and wash up; my husband kisses me on the cheek as he leaves for the day, a toothbrush still dangling from my mouth. I make a sandwich - deli turkey topped with provolone on a pesto-lined Dutch Crunch roll - and grab a string cheese from the fridge.  I scan my closet futilely for something comfortable but still semi-professional. I settle on my favorite button-down shirt and skinny jeans.  I layer on my coat, slip on shoes and steal out the door.

The city has been awake for hours. The air is crisp and the wind, chilly. I pass the same vagrant I pass every morning - short, Latino, aging.  He stands hunched over his shopping cart. His shoulders are covered in a ratty mildewed pancho. His eyes have never met mine.

On the BART, I scan for an empty seat. One open next to a sleeping teen. One open next to a middle-aged man playing on an iPhone.  One next to a frail Asian woman clutching her bag protectively to her lap.  I sit next to a 20-something boy and eavesdrop on the snippets of music that emanate from his headphones. 

I transition to the bus at 4^th Street and Market. It is crowded today on the 30, but I find a seat at the back by the window. My eReader is dead so I stare out at the city.  The doorman at the Marriot whistles for a cab as an impatient man in a slick suit taps his foot anxiously against the sidewalk. A large black sedan struggles to parallel park. A high-maintenance lapdog is carried in the arms of a lady with wild red hair.

At Townsend, I disembark. The wind whips against my coat.  The sun warms my back. I walk through the alley behind my office and breathe in the aroma of Primo Patio’s grill, already serving up delicious breakfast sandwiches.

My fob beeps as I open the door to my building.  I breathe one last breath of coffee-infused San Francisco air before I disappear into 660 Third Street.

The daily grind.