December 22, 2002:
Her hand was in my pants the whole drive south. This is not a complaint.
She said, "I'd have you out if it were dark outside." Eventually it was.
Extended family dinner, Casa de Bandini, Old Town, San Diego. Open courtyard. Tables beneath trees strung with festive white lights. Warm. Sound of a burbling faux fountain. Bandini's is touristy but has the best margaritas in the history of humanity. Best of all, it's within staggering distance of the home of our good friends.
"Ummmmmm!" Big-eyed contentment greets our first margarita-sips. Ever seen a baby's first taste of ice cream? Picture that, only taller.
Sadly, she's unable to join in. Has that Asian enzyme condition, whatever it's called, which prevents her from metabolizing alcohol. Two sips too much and she's under the table.
"Ummmmmm!," say the rest of us.
She scowls. Twenty, tall and tawny, jet-black hair and mischievous sparkling eyes. Little shy with a tableful of strangers. Right now she feels cheated by her body chemistry.
"Let me smell that," she says. Sure. You hand her yours, an aquarium-sized bowl large enough for whole families of goldfish to call home. Her eyes widen like everybody else's.
"Wow," she says, thoughtfully. Before you can say, "Hey!," she takes a small sip.
"Hey!," you say. "Should you be doing that?"
Behind big, wide eyes she replies, testily, "Relax. It's just one sip."
Except it's now two, and, in fact, it's three and indeed it's four plus a pretty hearty slurp.
"Waiter," she calls.
He brings her a small bowl not quite large enough for whole families of goldfish to call home, but certainly large enough to rent out as a vacation condo. She assures you, "I'll have a few more sips and give you the rest."
Talk and laughter. The adults are happy. The kids are happy. The moon is happy, the burbling faux fountain is happy. Until one of the kids points. Her face is sunburn red, her eyes are crossed and fluttering, and — whoops! there she goes — she slides down her chair until her feet stick out the far side of the table and her elbows lie where her ass used to be.
Kids, let this be a lesson to all of you.
Happily she revives long enough to walk three blocks to the bungalow of our waiting friends. We put her in an armchair, where she awakens from time to time, saying things like, "You all know he's into sweet young things?"
Drive through the Lagunas, chasing summer thunderheads along county highways. We find a good one, tall and black-headed like we are, erupting with golfball-sized raindrops which pelt our car like silvery stones.
Stop for hot cider at a roadside café, steam rising in hissing snakes as rain splashes the hot asphalt parking lot.
"This is magical!," she cries, dancing with the oldest child amid clouds of hissing rain-snakes.
She's right as can be. Ten years later, I now believe I know how to make it happen again, anytime I want it to.