By the time we were riding south on Highway 1,
he on a blue,
me on a pearl-white Heritage Softail,
we had taxied from SFO to the Fairmont,
I had my space arranged,
he had organised dinner,
Omakase お任せ at a tiny sushi counter,
his left hand on my right thigh,
my leg pressing into his.
I stir wasabi into his soy sauce.
I ask him, "Are you full?"
We got up early,
left our luggage with the concierge,
passed the figure-eight test at Dudley Perkins,
purchased helmets,
T-shirts,
gloves,
boots for me.
We headed south.
Rode around Half Moon Bay,
dismounted
for pancakes at a diner in the woods,
for ocean spray at Mavericks,
for selfies at Pigeon Point.
By the time we checked in at the lodge at Pebble Beach,
the Pacific Ocean stretched to the horizon, sparkling blue,
endless far far away.
Hawaii somewhere out there west, on my right,
where he had met me for our Honeymoon,
where he had bought two pregnancy tests from different brands,
where
the plus in blue,
the plus in pink,
appeared,
almost a year after we lost our first,
months after our wedding.
Where he and I spent days riding Harleys on Kauaʻi,
posing in front of waterfalls and clouds of mist,
where he and I had spent days on Oʻahu’s North Shore, unrushed.
We had left the girls,
one just six,
one just five,
at home with their nanny,
crossed the USA,
New York
Washington
Chicago
Las Vegas
San Francisco
Carmel.
By the time we got to Big Sur,
we had a Californian menu,
sipped wine, blends red, rich, full.
In our room,
I showered for him,
I showered with him,
I showered him with my body.
Dismounting him,
I left him deep asleep,
my bum pressing into the small of his back,
until morning.
We rinsed and showered,
went for breakfast,
him getting a flat white for me,
an espresso for him,
me bringing
juices,
eggs,
pancakes,
croissants,
bacon,
salmon teriyaki,
yoghurt,
from the American buffet breakfast.
Bombastic, endless, rich,
served with kisses on his neck.
We kept heading south,
talking about riding all the way to Shutters on the Beach,
where years earlier I had called him and said,
“I think I’m pregnant.”
We never made it.
We turned back north.
In Carmel we parked the bikes close to the ocean,
walked the main street,
holding hands
fingers entwined.
In Carmel we lunched,
purchased Moroccan pottery,
purchased a reindeer for Christmas we called "Dopey".
By the time we returned the bikes to Dudley Perkins,
we had posed with a one-off custom bike in Santa Cruz,
ridden Highway 1 through Miramar,
climbed the hills of San Francisco,
crossed the Bay to Berkeley,
looked down on the Golden Gate Bridge from the Marin Headlands,
ridden through a tunnel,
onto the bridge,
into the wind buffeting me,
pushing against my bike,
the steel grating shifting beneath my tyres,
boats tiny, beneath the bridge,
trucks towering close behind,
him riding ahead,
not fast,
not slow,
calculating,
his taillight,
like a lighthouse guiding me to shore.
By the time we had lunch at Alioto’s on Fisherman’s Wharf,
fish.
Citrus.
Cold white plates.
Harbour wind.
Tables facing the water.
Boats sliding past,
mooring,
unmooring.
We had returned to the Fairmont.
In the morning we had discovered San Francisco
on foot,
by public transport.
Just like home in Hong Kong,
the trams,
the cable cars
teleported us back in time.
From Powell,
to California,
to Hyde
and back.
Sometimes seated.
Sometimes riding the planks.
Sometimes hanging on with one hand,
my other holding his arm.
Every high point in the city
was like looking through a telescope.
The bridges.
The bay.
The rows of painted houses.
Alcatraz.
At sea level,
we squeezed through a World War II submarine,
walked the decks of an old Navy ship.
The sea breeze had me tie my hair into a ponytail.
We rode back into the city
in an ancient tram car transplanted from Melbourne.
By the time we had dinner in Chinatown,
we’d been to the farmers market at the Embarcadero.
Produce as fresh as France.
Wine shops.
Lavender honey.
Soaps.
Ocean salt.
Colour everywhere,
like Rue Montorgueil,
only covered,
by the bay.
I said to him,
“This city feels like Sydney in France.”
We ate at the same restaurant
two evenings in a row.
Hak jiu chao haai, 黑椒炒蟹,
wok hei deep,
like my father's.
Yu heung ka chi, 魚香茄子,
no fish.
Ma po dou fu, 麻婆豆腐,
hot and fiery.
Me always saying,
“Do you mind if we go back to Chinatown?
I know these aren’t your gweilo dishes, BB,
but do you mind if I order them anyway?”
He never objected.
He never objects.
The Go lo yuk, 咕嚕肉,
crisp, sticky, sweet,
was excellent too.
We wandered through a home interior shop.
Dining sets for twenty.
Candelabras for castle halls.
Antique cinema seating.
Tapestries.
Taxidermy.
On our last night
we had ceviche on the Embarcadero,
lime sharp on my tongue,
harbour salt in the air,
margaritas cold,
glasses dripping wet with condensation.
By the time we took off from SFO
on a Cathay flight,
bound for HKG,
bound for home,
I'd held him deep another night,
I'd sent each daughter a postcard.
Author's note:
Both Alioto’s and Dudley Perkins have since shut their doors permanently.
