Thanks for the good times, Pink House on Mann Ave., thanks Gina for letting us house/dogsit while you gallivant around France. We had strawberry fields forever.
With a closet full of Frieda Kahlo clothes.
And our choice of beaches right up Highway 1.
Along with Phil's Fish House, The Whole Enchalada, and Zachary's–because my mother loves to eat out.
We drank wine and drew pictures of wine. (Love all the Mexican glass, Gina!)
Chucho would like a pancake. Or a waffle. Or whatever you've got. Not wine though.
A fire makes it cozy when it's foggy in the morning.
Tomorrow we head to Portland singing Tom Petty's Don't Want to Live Like a Refugee…although so far, really, it's hard to complain.
twenty-something years of "what have you been up to?" 
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