Deathly Hallows, indeed...

Still warm and fuzzy after a day in the big City with youngest kiddo and her dear intended. It is kind of a tradition to do Harry Potter movies together. So I plyed the 101 corridor for a breezy hour to get to San Francisco. There are several towns lining the freeway. Rohnert Park grew there during my lifetime, a non-city that serves as a bedroom community for Santa Rosa, Marin, and San Francisco, with sections sensibly named A Section, B Section, etc. Kind of simple-minded, actually. Cotati was a tiny blip on radar, and now hosts the International Accordian Festival, a gala event I have so far managed to avoid. Petaluma was once the egg basket of Northern California. There are still chicken ranches sprinkled here and there, but it, too, has morphed into creeping suburbia. Over the Cotati grade, one dips down into Marin County, and I waved at the herd of dairy cows lounging after their morning milking, waiting for the farmer to open the gate that allows them to sojourn under the freeway to pastures on the east side of the road. Novato is Marin's poor relative, sprawling in mostly flatlands. It does have the famous rotating house, which I noticed had a new blue and white checked paintjob. White egrets stand by the freeway there and watch you pass by with their own brand of elegant disdain. San Rafael is old growth Marin, it even has one of Junipero Serra's missions beautifully preserved off its main drag. Houses perch on the hills in overgrown trees. Mount Tamalpais was almost invisible in the fog. It is Marin's token dormant volcano, and on a clear day, one can see across the Bay to Mount Diablo, the east bay's equivalent. After the climb up past Frank Lloyd Wright's Marin Civic Center, through San Rafael's auto row and up over the next hill, one enters Marin Proper, the artsy fartsy Marin one thinks of immediately when the name comes up. However, if one were to look over one's shoulder, there is San Quentin, sitting on primo real estate beside the Bay, near the entrance to the Richmond-San Rafael bridge, always a sobering sight. Corte Madera morphs into Mill Valley, bastion of the more laid back folks, and then there is Tiburon, with Belvedere Island attached, where the really rich folks hang out. Sausalito sports rows of funky houseboats strung together like Christmas lights, each more outrageously ingenius than the last. And then the ride gets exciting, climbing up the back of the Waldo Grade, where there is no civilization other than highway signs and lamp posts, huge eucalyptus and cypress and pine trees on the steep slopes of the hills, winding up to the tunnel. And one emerges to the Golden Gate Bridge, with the City spread out across the mouth of the Bay, all sparkly even in the mist. It never fails to take my breath away, even as I scramble to remember where in the car is my purse, and do I have $6 cash for the toll booth waiting on the other side. Even the drive down into the heart of San Francisco is wooded and green, as one traverses the Presidio, now the home of ILM (Industrial Light and Magic, Lucas's brainchild) and other commercial concerns. Kiddo live in the Marina, really easy to get to and often offering that very rare accomodation, a parking space. Yesterday, we went straight to brunch, taking Fillmore Street (yes, same as the auditorium of rock 'n roll fame) over the hill (and there should be a much better name for it, it is soooooo steep) and into Japantown, where we had reserved seating (!) for the movie after a delightful Indian meal at Dosa. I had traveled 120 miles by the time I greeted the poochies that evening, and it was all wondrous. Comes from being comfortable in my own skin, sober for 21 years. Now, that's something in itself.