Day 6 (7 senses)

(Thought and memory)

Light drizzle.

A boy in a green or blue sweatshirt leaps with long legs across the sidewalk.

A black dog quickly trots after him, tail wagging. Unleashed. Joyful.

A yellow-haired plump woman in her 50s (my neighbor) in a yellow rain slicker and hat waddles, hips moving side to side as she leans back, attached to the leash of her fat, mixed-breed dog, which is compulsively propelling them both forward.

She looks like an ad for frozen fish-sticks in that yellow slicker.

***

Yesterday I drove through Old Town, where tourists have overrun the now bustling, colorful, restaurant row.

When I was a child there were only three restaurants in Old Town worth visiting, and when we would go, we always went to Casa de Pico.

My mother would order the chile rellenos, I had chicken enchiladas, and I don't recall what my father ordered, except I know both parents drank margaritas and laughed increasingly as the alcohol and festive atmosphere lifted their spirits. For the two or so hours we sat there, surrounded by music and color, life outside the patio ceased to exist.

Within the restaurant parameters (the outdoor patio was only separated from the rest of the Old Town main square by a low brick wall on the south end) Mariachis in pressed, black suits with gold embroidery serenaded guests in heartfelt harmony, strumming guitars, singing about Mexico, love and the sea; thick paper flowers in pink, orange, and yellow decorated walls and tables, and waitresses in black flats wore fluffy folk-skirts with ruffled sleeves and tight bodices of brightly colored ribbons.

Usually there was a long line, but there was so much to be seen and before long, you had advanced and reached the hostess station, confronted with the three enormous blue margaritas (on display), about to get a table.

On the patio, piñatas hung from every umbrella, shaped like pink horses or yellow cows, and silver heat lamps warmed the brown terra cotta tiles.

At the blue-tiled table, one received a basket of warm tortilla chips and a small clay dish of salsa, and there was an ad, wrapped around the umbrella pole, in a pink pyramid shape, tempting you with the tostada grande or the flautas or special guacamole, prepared table-side.

When relatives visited, we took them there, straight from the airport. A festive "welcome to San Diego!" dinner in Old Town became a favorite tradition.

I drove through Old Town yesterday. Casa de Pico is gone, sold to new owners, and although both parents are here, living in the same city, I realized we will never again go there together as a family.