Ghirardelli ice cream. A bay area stop for those who love cream, and all sorts of diabetes based toppings. Ice cream falls under the Art category tonight. And why the hell not? The way Ghirardelli makes it–you can’t call it anything but Art. I usually pig out and go for the banana split (it’s quite a monster), but tonight I decided to go classy and order the very berry…something or other.
The number one thing you should know about Ghirardelli (by the Fisherman’s Wharf) is that it’s best to go at night, when it’s cold out and the tourists have left the area. If you go in during a sunny day, good luck finding a seat ma’am, mister…whoever you identify being. Speaking of identification (damn, I’m getting better at awkward transitions) — while I was talking about my new blog to some friends, I noticed an erratic shaking in the corner of my eye.
Some of you writers out there know that sometimes it’s hard to focus on a conversation when something interesting is happening in your peripheral vision.
And this one was a doozy!
My first distraction was sound actually. Then I slowly turned my gaze as I scooped some ice cream, not in an abrupt way — I didn’t want to distract the subject from her natural state. She was a beauty.
Short hair right below the ears.
Bright neon pink nail polish
Beer wrinkles (you know what I’m talking about).
In her mid twenties possibly thirties.
She threw her head back as a man spoke to her. She must have been flirting. Beautiful! Beautiful! Beautiful girl/lady/woman/specimen…I added this word “specimen” for a reason. This woman caught my attention with her laughter.
She threw her head back and laughed uncontrollably. The sound was uncanny! Imagine a car stopping abruptly or burning rubber while doing donuts. Screech! Now throw in a donkey with asthma who just finished running a mile. Honk! Kick in some scratches to the black board. EEK! And complete the brew with a sea gull choking on a donut. AAgh! What do you get? “Screekaaghonk!”
It was spectacular. She was laughing and making a sound I’ve never heard before. I started developing ideas as to why she laughed that way. How is that sound even possible? Who’s laugh did she inherit? Did she have an accident? Who raised her? Where did she grow up? Was she nervous talking to the cute guy? And then BOOM!!
Is she an alien? From outer space?
Yes!! I thought to myself, this girl/lady/woman/specimen–she is not from this world. She is otherly. I wanted to run to her, ask her name, make her tell me her planet of origin, be her friend…etc. etc. etc.
“So what about this blog?” my friend chimed in bringing me back to our square table and pulling me out of my head.
“Oh yeah,” I continued, “I am trying this new thing where I act more like myself, and I write about things that inspire me as a writer. Though, there’s no real formula. I’m just going for it.”
“Ah,” he said.
There was no turning back to the girl/lady/woman/specimen. By the time I had finished breaking down the purpose of OATMEAL and ART…Art had walked out of the building.