THERE are many images from a trip to San Francisco that pop up at the oddest times -- the screaming Swiss tourist, the scalding cup of coffee turning over in slow motion. But the one that still haunts my nights, even a decade later, is the enraged Rottweiler chasing me up a staircase in Berkeley.
That trip had promise. It was the first real vacation my husband, Lou, our toddler, Jeffrey, and I had taken since the baby was born. We toyed with going to Hawaii, but our life as newbie parents was too frenzied to accommodate any big travel plans. So we simplified the fantasy and drove up the coast from Los Angeles to San Francisco, where we checked into a creaky old hotel that had been advertised as having a good location.
"It looked better in the picture," I told Lou, a.k.a. Mr. Cheapo, whose only criterion was that it was inexpensive. Who cared that it was on the edge of the Tenderloin and that it sat on a street that was noisy, dirty and full of (not to put too fine a point on it) the flea-bitten?
I did, exhausted as I was from working full time as well as tending a frisky 18-month-old. I wanted to be pampered. On a beach in Maui. Sipping a mai tai and feeling warm sand under my toes.
But I made do. The next day was Sunday, and we drove across San Francisco Bay to Berkeley to meet friends for lunch at Spenger's Fresh Fish Grotto, an old favorite. Afterward, we walked around Telegraph Avenue and the UC campus.
Lou and I had gone to college at Berkeley, and we always said we'd move back if the opportunity presented itself. So we cruised around Berkeley Hills looking for homes for sale. Up a winding road, I spotted an attractive one with an "open house" sign in front.
Because Jeffrey had fallen asleep, Lou stayed in the car, and I excitedly walked down the concrete stairs that led to the front door. It was wide open.
"Hello," I yelled as I entered the top floor, looking for a real estate agent. No one greeted me.
I figured the person must be downstairs, so I climbed down a staircase to a dimly lighted ground floor.
"Hi," I called out again, turning into the kitchen, expecting to see a smiling, eager agent with an outstretched hand.
No warm handshake. Just some face time with a heavy breather: a Rottweiler.
Endless seconds passed. Then I realized that this house wasn't open for anything, and I was about to be one sorry-looking doggy treat.
