I had visited my friend Courtney toward the end of my wanderings in Europe, and she, being a corporate lawyer, had given me some sobering advice on my future."Yes, but you see, Liz," she said as we strolled along the green, "Betsy and Wetsy stories aren't actually going to make any money." To which I huffed and puffed and rolled my eyes, but ultimately conceded that maybe it was true that I should look for some sort of sensible day job in an area I liked. So within the hour I was trolling the San Francisco craigslist, happily imagining myself a fashion photographer's assistant or graphic designer. I told Courtney of my plans and she approved.
"Just make sure you leave some time free," she reminded me, "for a cross country road trip. I have five months off before starting work at the firm, and I really want to see the world's largest ball of string." So that was that. Liz and Courtney adventures are a splendid thing, because all we do is bicker and chase boys and have picnics and go on random things like ghost tours and on searches for magical forests that don't actually exist. And so when Courtney called me five months later saying that she was going to be in San Francisco on September 5th with a rented car pointed toward route one, the most scenic highway in America, and that she was in need of a wandering minstrel to keep her entertained (not her actual words), I found it a little too auspicious to resist. I packed up my tent and rucksack and Persephone the guitar, bid goodbye to Omega and Adelaide, and before I could process what was happening was in the air bound once again for golden California.
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