We had a house-guest for the film festival, Jon, a tall, tall man, a chemist, with pale gray, amost white hair, and wire-rimmed glasses. He’s a member of a film club Michael helps moderate in San Jose, and he slept on our couch in between trekking off to the Kabuki or Castro to watch films.

Jon lives out in the countryside near Palo Alto in a communal complex where meals are taken in a large house close to the road. His own house there was purchased for a dollar, sawn in half, and moved to the commune by truck, carried slowly down the road in the dead of night. When they got it to its lot, they discovered the two halves no longer quite fit together, and they had to use a jack to make the house whole again. Jon showed us the seam in his wall once when we were there for dinner.

As soon as he arrived, he and Michael took off for the festival. We all agreed to meet at the Kabuki at 11:30 pm, and so late that night, after fortifying myself with a cup of cafe au lait, I dressed in my standard party costume (black jeans and black sweater) and walked to Japantown.

Youth lingered, though I did not consider myself young back then. These days I cannot imagine agreeing to begin a night out at 11:30 PM.

Jon still lives in his uneven house at his little communal community and still sleeps on our couch during the film festival. We are such fast friends now that we spent last Thanksgiving weekend together, the three of us renting an air b&b in Nevada City and spending three happy days walking, hiking, drinking wine and playing dominoes.