During the annual California dreamin’ trip to Sausalito, I took a break from all things writing – for a moment – to celebrate my anniversary with Christine. No matter how much I wish to get away and not encumber my mind with placing adjectives with nouns and ending phrases with dangling participles, I, at any given moment, pull out a journal and scribe. I guess it’s what I do. And enjoy. I will say this, I returned with a plethora of ideas that will soon end up on either these pages, an article, or book. Perhaps the absence of a tote-along manuscript opened the channels of creativity I so often take for granted. Fluid thought does not always translate into fluid writing, but it does conjure a freedom to think. With Christine not feeling well and napping back at the condo, I sat at the bar of the Seahorse restaurant roped into the dockyards of Sausalito where one from out-of-town would surely not expect what I found: A salsa band with preeminent musicians yanked from the likes of Santana, a vast assortment of prized Italian wines, and food made as one would expect from the finest Italian chefs. Prior to the band’s session, I sat there with my bottle of brunello, a pork tenderloin and a view of life I cherish. There were waiters waiting tables, Nazario tending bar, and people conversing without the din of bad music over the speakers above them from some ridiculous Pandora station. Also missing were the ubiquitous cell phones ensconced over everyone’s ear. Instead there was an Italian celebration of wine and food. The owner, Mauro Dosolini, sauntered among his guests enchanting them with smiles and handshakes.  He shared wine with me as I perused his wardrobe of jeans complete with tattered knees. Yes, I know I have the pleasure of spending time each week in such a place at home, but this arena before me allows the gastronomical athlete to breathe without the wrath of martinis and Manhattans slathering the psyche. Here, it’s wine and wine only. No straws to the scotch bottles or hoses of flowing bourbon. There are no vats of vodka, no shots of Jagermeister, no gallons of gin. There is only the grape. I can taste and experience the nose, the ripe fruit and elegant tannins undisturbed by estuarine commentary of breweries and distilleries. The hallmark of a fine restaurant is not the stylish attire of the staff or attributes of the tables; it’s not the napkin set or the menu appeal. It is the celebration of life at the moment. The aroma of great times undisturbed and flourishing among the tables and bar stools. It is the breadth of the grape emanating upwards over the rim of the glass and onto the tongue fulfilling an empty tidal pool of desire. This was an anniversary of me and Christine delving into a life unimagined by many and incomprehensible to the rest. To us. And to me. Then there was dessert. A slice of divine labeled tiramisu. The exquisite texture of creamy warm, drizzled chocolate over enlivened chocolate ribbons devoured the evening as if nothing else had existed. A spoon to the mouth eluded Venus as she watched from above drooling droplets of jealousy upon the earth around me. California dreamin’.