Here it is winter by season and December by month. My mind is wandering away and joining a journey I had taken. I can’t help this California dreaming, as I sit at work hopelessly scheming,

returning to a memory, churning away.

Air Canada business class to San Francisco,

or first class, as my sister liked to say;

we soared south-westerly across blue skies.

My sister and I stayed at an iconic hotel: The Intercontinental Mark Hopkins, dowager of the San Francisco hills! We had dinner in the restaurant, with a bird’s eye view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Then fuelled by one too many martinis, in a tribute to Dorothy Parker, that wit: but we weren’t under the table nor the host. We hit the dance floor, twirling and twirling; every eye on us, the envy of all in the room.

The next day, heads heavy, the reality of day;

my sister took the wheel of the rental car, a sedan,

heading south along the golden California coast.

Finally, glittering like a gem in the distance, we spied glorious Carmel, our destination, and made our way to the charming Cypress Inn. You see, this was no ordinary holiday, not just any escape from the mundane; rather, it was a pilgrimage, it was a quest, even an odyssey; we were in search of a dream: to find Doris Day.

The hotel was co-owned by Miss Day, on all the walls there were posters of her films; and her gorgeous voice as if from heaven, being piped throughout the inn, pitch perfect. A pet-friendly hotel, almost everyone had a dog in tow: But look! An older couple strolling with a baby carriage,

and inside a little Chihuahua, swathed in blankets! Over cocktails, my sister and I planned for the next day, when we would scour the Carmel Valley, in this search for our favourite star’s home.

The following day after breakfast, into the rental again;

heading out of the quaint community into Carmel Valley,

in pursuit of our goal, to accomplish our Doris Day dream!

As luck would have it, we did not find her; not even a glimpse of her home; we came up short.

But driving in the Carmel Valley, we were on a personal journey; my sister and I were California dreaming. Giving up, we headed back into Carmel, and just outside the city, we waited at an intersection.

We were both lost in our thoughts: our minds wandering the Carmel Hills, when a convertible pulled up beside us, waiting for the light to turn green. My sister exclaimed: “That’s Clint Eastwood!” Before we could react, the car pulled away. “Follow him!” I cried out. Try as we might, the convertible took flight and got away.

The car and its driver were lost in the distance,

receding away relentlessly; actually, rather like

our divine dream of finding Miss Doris Day.