The Bridgeway Café

Though being a staple to Bridgeway Promenade in Sausalito, it has only taken me four plus years to visit The Bridgeway Cafe for brunch, a last minute decision on a Sunday late one morning in July. My time here was coming to a close; and with that, came a bucket list of things I had not done that I wanted to do. That list also included things that I had done, that I wanted to do again — over and over again, if I had my way. As with most things in life, I knew wouldn’t have my way. But today would be another story. Fast forward an hour, after a most delicious bloody mary and an omelette of my choosing stashed with bacon, ham, tomatoes, serrano peppers and green onions, I was satiated and afterwards, smiling.

The Bridgeway Cafe sits along Bridgeway Ave (renamed from its original name Water St in 1937, as it was the way to the Golden Gate Bridge). I seated myself outside, holding a four-top to myself, my personality (anytime I wanted) exceeding that of four people. So I felt good about stealing the seats. There was not a cloud in the sky, bright blue, a painting waiting to happen. The only clouds prevalent descended low upon the Bay, thick and bright white, blocking our view of the Bay Bridge, Alcatraz, and the city. The fog was coming for Angel Island, though she tried to fight her enemy back. Sitting ringside, the battle between the two was both serene and beautiful. The serenity was broken up by the hustle and bustle always present on a weekend day, tourists milling about. I heard German, French, Spanish, Chinese, Arabic and Hindi, not to mention dialects from all over the States. If a sleepy little town were ever one, Sausalito was the center of the known universe. Cars and motorbikes slowly drove back and forth. The Venice Cafe & Pizzeria stood alongside me, with its own set of tables on the sidewalks with its own foreign guests. Scoma’s and The Trident sat on the water in front of me. The Barrel House, where I made my decision a year ago to join my company, sat behind me. Sailboats, speedboats and kayaks dotted the Bay, some going headlong into the fog. In the distance just in front of the rolling clouds loomed the Sausalito hills, every bit as magnificent as any found along the Mediterranean.

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon, the kind where nothing needed to happen while life was happening all around you. It was perfect. I could count on both fingers the number of Sundays I have left here. It was not many. After brunch, I made way to the alcove between the water and the sidewalk across the street from the cafe. Copping a squat, I continued my afternoon appreciation of the town I had called home. Sitting under a tree, with two flower bushes in front of me, it made for a sublime writing environment. I spied conversations I couldn’t understand while I stared intermittently this way and that. The current moved quickly just a few feet in front of me, but gently, though every few minutes it did crash against the rocks, reminding all of of us that it was in charge, not us.

Before long, a bit restless, I made my way back to the car, dropping in and out of the shops along the street. I didn’t need anything, nor did I want anything. And yet, I was aimlessly interested in everything I saw, figuring if this was the last time, I’d linger a bit longer just in case. The shops and restaurants along Bridgeway have always been an eclectic mix of new and old, all mostly overpriced. Art galleries dominated the stretch of land, a couple of which I perused inside, if nothing else to understand how their paintings were priced. If it were raining, I would have been singing. As it was, it was sunny, and I was instead smiling.

That was a good day.

Postscript. The fog rolling in from San Francisco providing cover just above the waters of the bay eventually made its way to the rest of Sausalito and provided a gothic landscape to my normally bright views from my balcony. I was still smiling.