San Francisco
January 19th: We pull out of Salt Lake City on a quarter-tank of gas, and I convince Lyds it’ll be alright. It’s not alright, as we fly through the desolate swamp of sadness

Last trip to Dartmouth for a long time. Hey Babij.
that is winter salt marsh Western Utah. We red light 50 miles from anywhere, pull over to call Jane who suggests we turn back toward Salt Lake. We coast silently, desolately at exactly 52 miles per hour in fifth gear for miles and miles without radio or windows or A/C. We saw two or three broken down cars on the side of the road, waving furiously at us to stop; we couldn’t stop, we barely had enough ourselves. It’s every car for itself running out of gas in the salt flats. The engine started to putter as we coasted down the off-ramp of the blessed gas station. I run into the owner of a truck we saw on the side of the road ten miles back, clutching a red gas can and asking if anyone was heading east. Wendover, Utah. Jesus. We drive on through Nevada, talking about lost romance and our fleeting emotions, my short-lived and best college relationship with Blair, the inaccessibility of Rohde, Hurricane Camp, etcetera, etcetera, on through the small lights of Reno and past the seasoned rim of Tahoe and on past the fleeting thought of Sacramento into the descent through the hills of California and the Frisco Basin. We’re staying with Nina Barrett that night, and pull into her Mission area apartment, I set my alarm clock and sleep on the couch.
January 20th: Friday, but she has the day off. Continue reading →