6 March 2007, Tuesday. Light blue sky--a California cerulean--with distant cirrus whisps. Giant golden Corona Extra bottle sprawled on its side down more than half the length of an imposing white truck. Improbable liquid pouring forth into blue bubble-rimmed pool--vignette of tropical sea--a grass-roofed hut perched at end of wooden pier. One form of travel... Horizon beverage, small red letters on door of cab. Behind me, a chirpy voiced woman at color copier. Cheerful, instructive, businesslike. They decide on 200... In front, someone else, an older person at bus stop, light green chenille jacket, unruly close-cropped hair, looking down over furrowed brow as she leans back against the post. Monthly pass in one hand, row of small geometric diagonals running down one side. In the other: a nylon backpack, soft, black. The two models--verses from Dante. Less playful than they seemed...
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