Half Moon Bay: Life After Life

-Three days in Half Moon Bay during storm season-

At first glance, Half Moon Bay is quirky and charming, with its quaint downtown, slow-moving traffic and the occasional seagull passing overhead. We're two hours from home, but somehow, it feels like we are in a different time zone. What time is it at Bookish? I asked Will when we sat down to lunch at 1:30. The answer was, 1:30. 

We checked into the Half Moon Bay Inn, which is also quirkly and charming, with a bathroom so small you can almost turn around in it and our own (semi) private veranda. I'm writing this from the bed, half expecting a seagull to fly through the open door. 

In the lobby, we were helped by a woman I assume was the proprietor, who sat behind a messy desk and fussed with things for a long time while we waited. The postal carrier came in, a woman in her twenties. "I'm so tired," she announced, a foot away from me, pulling a stack of mail from her bag. 

"Oh no!" said our proprietor in an accent I couldn't place but was beautiful, that sounded like faraway mountains and bodies of water I can't find on a map. "Were you up all night?"

"It's because of the puppy," said the carrier. She sorted mail into two piles, then reached for the little jar of peppermints. I'd only noticed the jar because I'd helped myself to a peppermint a minute earlier, still feeling some nausea from the twisty-turns on our route. "I'm going to help myself to your peppermints," the carrier announced, and proceeded to shove about twenty in her pants pockets, and then another three or four in her shirt pocket while I watched, astonished. 

"Well, at least you're almost at the end!" sang out our proprietor cheerily. She was looking at the computer, which was still not cooperating. 

The carrier left, and then the proprietor excused herself to see if our room was ready, and I asked Will if it felt like we were on a movie set, like we'd just witnessed some banter akin to Tippi Hedren in the shop buying lovebirds. 

"What do you mean?" he asked. 

**

And then, lunch. We ended up directly across the street because one of us had misjudged her caffeine intake and could feel the throbbing in her skull like a distant warning bell. The place directly across the street was Mediterranean, and we were seated on the patio under a too-hot heat lamp to eat our babaganoush and gyros, plus of course fries, because for some reason, and I will fight you on this, restaurants that serve Greek food have the best fries. Will ordered a Mexican coke, and then ordered it again when it didn't come the first time. The second time, he asked, "Would it be possible for me to get a Mexican coke?" and the waiter said, "Anything is possible," which did seem to be true, because no less than ten minutes later, the Mexican coke did in fact arrive. 

**
Later. 

It's raining, but that doesn't matter. The roof is being buffeted by some strong winds, but we're inside, with a cozy comforter and tea and chocolates, enjoying not having the television on. I'm writing, Will is reading. 

The important thing is to be alive, to be doing regular people things. The demon is there, chasing us, but being held at bay -- the analogy is no good, and so I'll stop it now. I'm trusting that this medication that makes me feel not great most of the time is doing its job. I'm trusting that if I keep doing the things I need to do, the prognosis will be favorable.

**

We visited three bookstores, because that's what you do when you own a bookstore; it becomes your life. In addition to the three books I brought to read, I've added three more to my bag, including Charlotte's Web. It feels like the moment, considering the news of the day, to read something sweet and nostalgic where I already know the outcome. (Spoiler: Wilbur lives. Life at the farm goes on.)

We drove out to Mavericks beach and walked a muddy and windy path to beyond the surf break. Signs were everywhere, reminding us not to turn our back on the ocean, not to walk on the jetty, that XX number of people get swept into the ocean each year by rogue waves. It was humbling, to be just a person in front of an ocean swell, buffeted by wind, insignificant and indispensable but still here, still alive.

**
Lately, the shock of it has caught up to me -- the diagnosis, the rapid decision-making, the surgery, the recovery -- in a different way than I felt it the first time through, when I was actually living it. Now it's a shock that it happened at all, that something like this dared to interrupt my plans (I have so many plans!). I literally sobbed the other day over something that never happened but could have -- that I could have just skipped my mammogram because we were busy with our anniversary trip and gone on with life, with this thing growing inside me, too small to be felt for months. 

**
Our first night, it started raining around dinner time and didn't stop until brunch the next day (that's how we're measuring time on this trip). We left the door to the veranda open and listened to the wind and the spatter of raindrops and did nothing and just existed. We rotted, as the kids would say, and it was tremendous. 

It's a new year, but it feels, too, like a new life.