Be Prepared to Stop

I’m here. I’m here for good, legs stretched on the window seat at the Sheraton Sacramento, looking east at the dusky pink and blue sky. It’s either 11 p.m. or 8 p.m., depending on which part of my brain you ask.  

Patrick and Steph (and their dog Gully, who waited in the car), met me at the airport at 11 p.m. yesterday — less than 24 hours ago. When we got outside, the night air was so cool! They dropped me off at the Sheraton; I checked in; zoomed up 25 floors and flopped into bed. Slept until 3 a.m., which is also 6 — the time I always got up in Florida. I turned over and slept again, until 7, California time. 

Later, Patrick drove me to my new home.  There, everyone was easy, from the woman at the front desk to Bill and Bobby, the contractor and his son. My place looks —  or should I say feels — great. Smooth walls, floors ready for wood. From the balcony Bobby raved about what we could see: the Capitol, the yellow bridge, the new arena. “There aren’t too many sights in Sacramento,” he laughed, “but you can see them all from here.” I like that.

In the car, Patrick coached me, “Take it easy, Mom. Quiet your voice. Lower your intensity. People are more relaxed and friendly here.” How great to be advised by my son to relax and enjoy life!

Of course, my antennae are up, and today I noticed details that will soon escape me: water in the hotel bathroom does not gush into the sink; the faucet emits a light spray. Toilets need to be severely flushed. Buses have signs urging “Don’t forget to recycle your oil filter.” There are more bicycles, more beards, more arms with tattoos shoulder to wrist. Pedestrians don’t jaywalk; they wait for the Walk sign. Some bicyclists seem reckless, cutting corners from the sidewalk to the street right in front of cars. “Ordinary” dinner wine is extraordinary. 

At my new home there’s more to be done: details, details, and a conundrum: I need a new mailbox key. The last owners did not leave one. Mary the realtor had a new key made at the Post Office. To get that key, I have to go to the Post Office and prove I own this place. That would be the closing statement. Just before I left Tallahassee I UPS’d the closing statement and other papers to myself at my new address; so the proof I own this place is in the mailbox that I cannot open until I show proof I own this place. Tomorrow the solution will reveal itself.

An hour ago, as I was eating dinner at the hotel restaurant, in a comfy booth with a window onto J Street, a city workman sauntered onto the street directly outside my window and erected a sign. It said, “Be Prepared to Stop.” I think it was for me.