One day

I was sitting on a wooden bench, waiting for the train. I looked above the roof of the platform across the tracks and saw perfect blue sky. It was so clear, so cloudless, I almost wanted to dive into it.

As I adjusted the scarf around my neck and pulled the edge of my trench coat to cover my exposed shin, I began to daydream about being in southern Cali. Okay so I haven't been there since 1986, but I'm allowed to concoct random fantasies about it.

(The reader must forgive me for being utterly adolescent sounding, simple-minded, and pathetically cliche. But this is my fantasy goddamnit.) I take a few girlfriends along (prerequisite: all girls must be single and unattached). When we land, the dank cold air from the originating city that had been trapped inside the plane for hours finally escapes into the mild, sunny weather. We stay at a four-star hotel flanked by palm trees. (Oh wait, palm trees are everywhere.) We rent a cherry red convertible and drive around the city with the top down, wearing pastel halter tops and shorts with cute sandals, blasting music and squealing like obnoxious tourists. Then we go to the beach and alternate between baking in the sun and trying to surf. The men are drool-worthy with six-pack abs, sculpted arms and legs--and they're all straight. After we flirt with a few guys, we give them our numbers and they say they'll call us later that night to go out.

Then we go back to the room to unwind and freshen up for the night, at which point the hot guys call us. They invite us to dinner and maybe a club afterwards. With our newly minted tans, we have dinner at one of the new up-and-coming restaurants, not one of the tourist traps. The food is remarkable; and the conversation, like the wine, flows endlessly. Then we go clubbing and the club is fifteen times more lavish and larger than any club I've been in my life. I'm already buzzing and we dance the night away until the sun rises.

And that would be Day 1.