The buildings, stacked one upon another, clinging to the sides of hills that drop directly into the sea, were just as I had imagined them. The winding road at the bottom of the hill, just above the waters edge, was faced with small cafes and clothiers. Everything was exactly as I would have hoped for in any romantic Mediterranean town.
I have of course, never been to the Mediterranean.
Sausalito is just across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. It is small. Small enough that Google chrome, which recognizes the need to capitalize the words “Golden Gate”, insists that the word is a misspelling of an unknown word. I insist it is a wonderful place that I should visit more often.
I’m not sure exactly why I should visit, it is mostly full of people waiting in line to catch the ferry and weekend cyclists in unsafe numbers, but I liked it. Probably I liked the idea of it.
Such is the case with most things; I like the idea of them.
Sausalito has lots of yachts and I like the idea of sailing yachts. It has an expansive and expensive men’s clothier in which I found nothing I could afford. Or at least I found nothing I was willing to afford.
But I liked the idea of buying something there and boarding my sailboat for a leisurely cruise across the bay with my well dressed friends who all tell wonderfully intelligent stories while snacking charcuterie.
But reality is that I don’t own a boat, most of my friends prefer hamburgers, and my clothing normally qualifies as acceptable rather than fine. I’m okay with reality. Reality is my favorite.
But… How great would it be if my reality included: a sailboat, the time and ability to sail, a respectable clothing budget, a good tailor, a good cafe on every corner, more aged gouda, a trip to the Mediterranean, a restored 1967 Ford Bronco, a publisher, a pilot’s license…
and another trip to Sausalito.