We walked after dark.  Above, against the night sky of central Rosarito, streetlamps shone with bright spheres of illumination, cast circular rooms of light over the asphalt, rooms our shadows moved through, pooling for a step, then stretching behind us.  It comes to me these are like phases of living—what we approach, what we leave behind.  Those cowboys and Indians of childhood, the parenting games where we learned the ropes as our children grew into adults, are still learning, fed by new generations, next first steps, new rooms of yellow-cast light, the cycles of growth and dimming.
   Two blocks.  Three.  Yaqui Taco is closed.  Four blocks, five.  El Gerente is also dark.  No perrones con todo tonight.  We turned west toward the main boulevard.  Now the light of storefronts sent our shadows to walk side-by-side with us; my German friend sometimes forgot he was not in Europe, the Americas underfoot.  Not in Germany with friends, father, brother, or sister.  A vendor with a cardboard box full of beaded bracelets balanced on her head smiled.  A tooth rimmed with gold picked up the glow of streetlights.  Gracias, no.  No, gracias.
   A block south, Pueblo Plaza.  Cactus in rooftop planters.  Claws clicking against terra cotta, the thin cats of day prowling night’s roof tiles.  Courtyard wooden tables held candles under wine bottles with the bottoms cut out.  Calm flames phosphorescent through the green-tinted glass.  Bark of Mio, Yasumin’s ginger-colored lhasa apso with his little red-banded topknot of hair.  A ripple of hugs, kissed cheeks.  Yes, Yasumin’s sushi restaurant still served.  We ordered California rolls, ceviche rolls, bamboo saki, asked Yasumin the Japanese for Salud, toasted with Kampai!
   That was last night.  When the rooms of light we moved through became one room.  Where asking for mas wasabi was as natural as my friend sharing stories in German I could not comprehend.  When all languages seemed equal and laughter brought understanding without comprehension of separate words.  Light was suffused, tinged like the air is at harvest time.  Motes of meaning floating in tiny, unseen arcs and spirals, places and phases, familiar as family, and yet not quite the same.  Shadows forming new shapes to pool, pause, diminish as we move.

lynn for a lack of better words this rocks!  i enjoyed that opening paragraph the most, and what follows is absolutely delightful.  all the subtle idiosyncrasies from the friend to the meal are fun and authentic, leaving this a wonderful piece filled with depth and entertainment.  excellent writings here lynn!  lawrence

lawrence!  thank you!  79 views and one comment ain't bad at all when the comment is as lovely as yours! Appreciate the words!

lynn

hi lynn,

nothing to add that lawrence has already said. you packed so much into such a small piece. i found myself walking with you and getting hungry. seriously, nice work.

just one small thing i noticed - Those cowboys and Indians (don't know whether cowboys should be capped)

daryl

Very readable, and moving.  If I may, a few nits (again, as with any meal, salt as wished):

We walked after dark.  Above, against the night sky of central Rosarito, streetlamps shone with bright spheres of illumination, cast circular rooms of light over the asphalt, rooms our shadows moved through, pooling for a step, then stretching behind us.  It comes to me these are like phases of living—what we approach, what we leave behind.  Those cowboys and Indians of childhood, the parenting games where we learned the ropes as our children grew into adults, are still learning, fed by new generations, next first steps, new rooms of yellow-cast light, the cycles of growth and dimming.
   Two blocks.  Three.  Yaqui Taco is closed.  Four blocks, five.  El Gerente is also dark.  No perrones con todo tonight.  We turned west toward the main boulevard.  Now the light of storefronts sent our shadows to walk side-by-side with us; my German friend sometimes forgot he was not in Europe, the Americas underfoot.  Not in Germany with friends, father, brother, or sister.  A vendor with a cardboard box full of beaded bracelets balanced on her head smiled.  A tooth rimmed with gold picked up the glow of streetlights.  Gracias, no.  No, gracias.
   A block south, Pueblo Plaza.  Cactus in rooftop planters.  Claws clicking against terra cotta, the thin cats of day prowling night’s roof tiles.  Courtyard wooden tables held candles under wine bottles with the bottoms cut out.  Calm flames phosphorescent through the green-tinted glass.  Bark of Mio, Yasumin’s ginger-colored lhasa apso with his little red-banded topknot of hair.  A ripple of hugs, kissed cheeks.  Yes, Yasumin’s sushi restaurant still served.  We ordered California rolls, ceviche rolls, bamboo saki, asked Yasumin the Japanese for Salud, toasted with Kampai!
   That was last night.  When the rooms of light we moved through became one room.  Where asking for mas wasabi was as natural as my friend sharing stories in German I could not comprehend.  When all languages seemed equal and laughter brought understanding without comprehension of separate words.  Light was suffused, tinged like the air is at harvest time.  Motes of meaning floating in tiny, unseen arcs and spirals, places and phases, familiar as family, and yet not quite the same.  Shadows forming new shapes to pool, pause, diminish as we move.

Daryl, thank you.  Interesting questions about capping Cowboys.  I'm unsure what the answer is.  My thinking is 'cowboys' is an occupation whereas Indians represents a a people.  On the other hand, I'm thinking about playing cops and robbers [two occupations] and whether or not the name of that make-believe game would be capitalized?  Maybe another reader will know?  Glad you stopped in to read.  Much appreciated!

Rob, thank you for the notes.  I want to consider when I have a bit more time.  I do appreciate yours.  Muchos gracias.

lynn

Lynn - enjoyed the walk in Baja - and the parallels it brought to mind in your head.  Dan