It really isn't fair. I used to be a dedicated New Yorker for whom it was a simple matter of pride to denigrate California. It's rather dismaying to have to modify my position. Just because I loved my last two visits there. But I did. Of course, Jill was part of them, which made a big difference. So did the fact that we were right on the Pacific Coast.

I discovered that the Pacific Ocean has a power and grandeur unlike anything I'm aware of in the East. It is mighty and hurls itself against cliffs which it is slowly ravaging. It's altogether awesome. I actually concluded that it's only the cities in California that I don't like. "They're not like real cities," I told Chuck. "They don't have culture. And you can't walk. They just get in the way of the scenery."

This year we began our West Coast visit in L.A. We visited friends from Cal Tech in Pasadena. I liked Pasadena and I loved Cal Tech. We went to the Norton Simon Museum, which I didn't like nearly so much after its renovation. But the gardens seemed more beautiful than before. And that's where I saw the first egret. White and slender and as uplifted as an arc.

Then Chuck and I flew in to San Francisco. Jill, Brian and Tiffany joined us for the few days we would spend at the same house we had loved so much last year at Sea Ranch. The house overlooks the ocean and is surrounded by endless stretches of rugged cliffs and beaches. Who cared that it was cold and that it drizzled the entire time we were there? We didn't. We'd drive each day to one of the beaches. The beach would be eerie and romantic, and we'd have it all to ourselves. The tide would be coming in and swirling underfoot. It was always so special. Sometimes just being there was special enough. But sometimes I'd feel as if I should do something special, too.

So on Walk On Beach, I suddenly picked up a branch and scribbled "I love Chuck and Jill and Brian" on the sand. I wanted the waves to carry it away to all eternity. Then, "Follow my footsteps," I shouted as I skipped along. Chuck followed behind me. Then came Jill. Brian, who's a new-comer to our group, just stood by and gawked.

First I skipped in curves. Then, to make it more challenging, I skipped a loop-de-loop, as Chuck described it. I skipped along, and Chuck and Jill skipped, too. But when Chuck skipped the loop-de-loop, he almost collided with Jill. So he skipped sideways and up onto a rock. He did this precisely as a wave came in. He slid off the rock and tumbled into the tide. He was okay. But all of his clothes were soaked through and through. Especially the seat of his pants. Jill's shoes were soaked, too. Brian was dry. He had still been watching our antics in disbelief.

I chastised myself for having inadvertently choreographed such an unlikely collision. We traipsed back, laughing and shivering. We looked for the path to the parking lot but we kept missing the marker. Brian finally located it. I was sure we'd all get pneumonia. But we didn't.

That night, on the grassy cliff between our house and the ocean, we saw the second egret. We watched as, long, slender and mottled brown, it stalked with stately deliberation across the cliffs. Jill and I tiptoed outside, wondering how close we might venture. But the moment Jill threw some bread in its direction, the bird rose in the air on silent wings and disappeared.

Next day we were en route to Mendocino. And there, through the rain, in the distance, we saw an entire field of egrets. White and slender, they posed gracefully. "This is magical," I said to Jill. "It's what happens when we're together."

The three days on the Pacific drew to a wonderful close. Jill and Brian and Tiffany drove back to San Francisco. Chuck and I lingered to close up the house. We would drive back by way of Bodega Bay. Last year we had loved Bodega Bay.

The Bay came into view, and we turned from the highway. And there was the third egret, standing motionless as a white statue by the bay. We stopped so that I might photograph it. I got out my camera. Chuck suggested that I roll down the window. I did. The noise frightened the egret, and it rose aloft and disappeared.

We looked for the egret but never found it. Instead, we came across a group of ducks, comically waddling their way across the road. I photographed them. They were nothing like the egrets, of course. The egrets have beauty and elegance. The ducks congregate with an awkward and unselfconscious humor.

I like them both. And I love Jill. So now I have a problem. I've become a disloyal New Yorker.

I no longer dislike all of California.

Back East once again, New York was cold and snowy. I was walking along 68th Street when a flurry of motion in a nearby tree caught my attention. I stared intently. The bird in the tree had contours that were very different from the usual pigeon's. This bird was larger, with a rather prominent neck. If it weren't so plump, it could almost have been an egret.

And for a brief moment, I had even imagined that it was.

February, 2000
BB