On Victorian sofas and Pacific sunrises
It was 6:15 AM when Jules’ voice abruptly woke me up. ‘Get up, come on! Let’s go watch the sunrise!’.
I must have fallen asleep. There I was, lying on that stiff, dusty, rosemary-coloured velvet sofa. It was Jules and I, two girls who had ended up at the intersection of Haight and Ashbury Street. Jules had indulged the advances of a guy at the club last night. His name was Yanick and he wanted to continue the evening at his friend Dawson’s place.
So, we ended up in one of those Victorian-style houses so dear to the Beat Generation. Yet there was nothing hippie about Dawson: he had something austere about him, as if he were a subject painted by John Singer Sargent. Yanick, on the other hand, always seemed to be on holiday, with the smell of cannabis between his fingers and the scent of sandalwood in his curly hair. So, we were together. Some shots of tequila, Tame Impala’s music blaring, the darkness outside slowly fading. Then, I grabbed my leather jacket and we headed out. Entering Yanick’s car, I was hit by a strong smell of cedar and patchouli. ‘It’s an essence. My grandmother gave it to me from Haiti, where it’s used for tribal rituals. You burn it, and it relaxes your mind’. Dawson looked at me and said: ‘Close your eyes and inhale the scent, then open them and look out of the window’.
So I did.
In an instant we were on the Golden Gate Bridge, suspended between steel and clouds. Seagulls were cutting through the sky, and the morning light was making its way through the condensation and the red pylons. I looked at Jules, who responded with a smile. For once, everything was going well.