west of the moon

Rainy-morning flowers.

Rainy-morning flowers.
Originally uploaded by Susan Groppi

Ishi Courtyard.

Ishi Courtyard.
Originally uploaded by Susan Groppi

Trees in the rain.

Trees in the rain.
Originally uploaded by Susan Groppi

new year's flower.

pink flower.
Originally uploaded by Susan Groppi

Three shopping days.

Hash browns.
Originally uploaded by Susan Groppi

Bette's is one of those places that's crowded even on slow days, sitting right in the middle of the brunch culture around here, Bette's and Mama's and Rick & Ann's and Lois the Pie Queen, a handful of other places.  This particular Saturday, three days before Christmas in the heart of Berkeley's tiny-but-luxe Fourth Street shopping district, was not a slow day, and by the time I showed up, tables for two were an hour and  half wait.  A person by herself, willing to sit at the counter, could find a space in fifteen or twenty minutes, though, and I read while I waited, standing in the sliver of space between the jukebox and the coatrack, soaking up holiday cheer.  The special today was gingerbread pancakes, and when the waiter brought mine (calling me darling and winking), I could smell ginger and molasses before I even started eating.

I'm sure there's a pattern, some kind of economic indicator, in the uneven distribution of shoppers throughout Fourth Street, but the correct reading for these particular tea-leaves escapes me.  Sur le Table was mobbed, Aveda grimly empty.  I spent a while poking around a crowded boutique filled with lovely ornate-looking things of indeterminate purpose, hand-carved wooden gnomes in hand-carved tree habitats, four-hundred-dollar fountain pens, glass bottles filled with what I first thought was glitter but might actually have been shavings of gold and silver.  The European-style travel-goods store was full of people examining the shrink-wrapped towels and bright plastic suitcases, while the specialty paper store had only one or two people checking out their hand-crafted gift tags and art-stamped wrapping paper.  The staff at Kiehl's, all wearing white lab coats, were handing out mimosas to customers.  In the large gallery space near the parking lot, belonging to a co-op of local artists, nothing had prices marked, no one was there to answer questions, and they hadn't even bothered turning on the overhead lighting.  (Oddly enough, I used to date someone who worked in that space, but it wasn't an art gallery then.  It was a tech startup, back in 2000 or 2001, all Aeron chairs and sleek cinema monitors, with a wall of windows looking out on the shops next door.) 

Last night, on our way home from dinner, Matt and I were discussing some of the Christmas lights on houses in our neighborhood.  Not many houses are decorated, but the ones that are decorated look nice. (With a few exceptions--too many people have blue lights.  Blue lights aren't festive, they're creepy and sinister.)  I realized while we were talking that even the nice decorations feel incomplete, though.  Trees and bushes wrapped in Christmas lights are pretty, but they're even better when the lights are all blurred and glowing from underneath a layer of snow.  When I first moved to California, people told me that I'd miss winter, that I'd miss the snow and cold and ice, but I didn't, not until this year.  It took seven and a half years, but finally it's true, I miss the snow and the cold and the ice. 

Backyard tree

Backyard tree
Originally uploaded by Susan Groppi

Autumn in New Jersey

Autumn in New Jersey
Originally uploaded by Susan Groppi

Turning slowly towards winter.

Turning slowly towards winter.
Originally uploaded by Susan Groppi

Spiderweb.

Spiderweb.
Originally uploaded by Susan Groppi

Persimmon

Persimmon
Originally uploaded by Susan Groppi