onight M. and I had a party to attend in the city from six to eight, though I wasn't able to break the fast until 7:06. We timed it so we could pick up some dim sum from our favorite place on the way, and I could eat it in the car as soon as the sun set, at which point we'd be arriving at our destination. These are the types of mundane little things that suddenly become quite important when you haven't eaten for thirteen and a half hours.

By six forty-five we were headed south across the Golden Gate Bridge, with the sun taking its time to descend into the ocean. It was an exquisite paradox between wanting the sun to set so I could eat and drink, and enjoying the utter beauty of the moment. If you've never seen it, the approach into San Francisco from the north is incredible at sunset. You round a curve from the hills and suddenly the whole area is laid out before you: to your left, Alcatraz, with the Bay Bridge and the Berkeley hills beyond - the water between is dotted with white sailboats. To your right, the endless ocean, perhaps with a lumbering shipping liner bobbing its way to destinations unknown. And in the center is San Francisco, a sweeping view from the Transamerica Pyramid and the tall skyscrapers of downtown to the small little houses nestled on hillsides, separated by the green swath of Golden Gate Park. As the sun goes down it pours rosy gold on everything, and the sky is still blue to the east and a nearly full moon is becoming brighter and bolder.

The smell of dim sum nearly overpowered me, but the hunger is the important part. The empty belly, the dry mouth, and the tender spot on my forehead from prostration. They're the offering and I give them all willingly - to ask for a prayer to be answered, to acknowledge a gift received, or sometimes - most of the time - just to say hello.