we will, we will, greet you

The coffee is nearly scalding, but the toast is cold and hard, and I try to time my bites so I'm not chewing when I pass anyone. Everyone but the most sea-minded surfer greets a man with a stroller walking in the half-light of dawn. We travel on, toward Capitola village. I practice beginning French lessons with the ipod "Je vous present ma fille. Elle s'appelle Octavia".
In the neighborhood there is no sidewalk, and giant gleaming trucks pass us, always too close and too fast. My arms tense, and I stare hard after them. But soon we're at the top of the hill leading down into the village, and I stop and take off my jacket and take in the morning. Far down the coast, fog pools in the wooded hills above Aptos. Seagulls whirl and bicker above the promenade beach. And people sit in their cars at the overlook parking lot, at least one always starting the day with loud classic rock.