When we awoke, it was after eight.
“I’m starving,” he said as he sat up.
After he took a quick shower, we walked to La Cantina. Dinner was wicked—fat burritos smothered in red sauce, too many tortilla chips, and a pitcher of margaritas. We were well into the meal before we said a word.
“Pig city,” I noted.
Ray laughed. “Oink,” he said before digging back into his burrito.
We debated a second pitcher of margaritas, finally deciding to go for it since we weren’t driving.
“This was such a good idea,” I told Ray.
“The second pitcher?” he asked, raising his glass.
“The vacation. Just a train ride from the city, we find paradise.”
“And it wouldn’t have anything to do with a hotel and room service?”
“No. You can find those in San Francisco. It’s better here, removed from the clamor, so
