He drove fast, too fast, but I felt no fear as we hurtled across the Golden Gate Bridge heading south. I think one of my children has a photo of me standing on that bridge the day it opened in 1937, during one of my trips out west. I remember drinking too much one evening at a bar near Fisherman’s Wharf and walking all night through the city, secretly hoping I’d run into Julia again, even if she was with her husband. Did I sing aloud as I stumbled and lurched down streets shimmering from the ocean mist?I noticed the taxi driver eyeing me occasionally through the rearview mirror, flashing smiles like a ship’s signalman. “Beautiful day, eh?” he said through the mirror.“Yes,” I said to the mirror.“You have big family?” he asked.“Medium size, I guess. Three great-grandchildren.” I smiled reflexively and suppressed an urge to pull out their pictures, though I might have if he hadn’t been driving so fast.“I have two grandchildren,” he smiled. As he pointed to the little faces pasted to his dashboard he seemed to talk faster and faster and I lost track of what he was saying.
