San Diego Reader

Two dogs walked among the trunks of squat olive trees. A large white cat stretched and lolled in the dust. Dozens of chickens surrounded by a wire fence pecked at the ground. A warm, steady breeze carrying the scent of cultivated soil rose up over the sprawling hills and made the wooden and metal chimes hanging from the trellis above us click and tinkle. Time seemed like an old crush, once an all-consuming obsession, but now a faceless memory as I stared into the eyes of my true love.

With a bottle of wine in hand -- the metallic ink "label" handwritten in flowing script directly on the glass -- we bid the woman farewell and climbed back into the car. As I leaned into my seat, my main man to my left and my best buddy to my right, I finally understood that it didn't matter what time we arrived at our next stop. I was already at my destination, the place I'd needed so desperately to be. Watching the road ahead, I silently promised that the next time I catch myself standing by my front door, tense with urgency and feeling compelled to sigh loudly at David (my passive-aggressive signal for "Hurry up!"), I will instead take a deep breath, close my eyes, and remember this afternoon -- the breeze on my skin, the smell of the air, and that glorious knowledge that, at least for one day, I had nowhere to be and nothing to do.

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