Mar. 1st, 2011

Mom and I went down to the Embarcadero. We took a taxi; there’s no place to park. Most people who go there don’t go by car.

The Embarcadero is downtown and right on the water, sandwiched between the piers. It’s an old building, painted like a carnival, with great gaping windows and a high dome. It hasn’t been well taken care of; there are handbills plastered over handbills on the outside, and the old gaslamps outside are broken. Tourists walk by and take pictures. There’s always a crowd outside, most of whom you can see right through.

We went in the front doors. The high foyer had a marble floor polished by countless feet, and the whispers and scuffing of the crowd echoed all around us. Ahead of us, in the central section of Embarcadero, we could see the long snaking queue of the people who had passed on. They were all sad and tired, slowly shuffling forward as the line glacially advanced toward the terminal doors. I could see the far walls through their semi-transparent bodies. I didn’t want to look at them; they reminded me too much of Dad.
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September 2012

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