The year is 1987 and I drive, with a friend, in a beat up, red 1965 Ford Mustang to San Francisco. We have sketchbooks, pencils, pens and cameras loaded with black and white film. We find a cheap place to stay and roam the City as explorers and adventurers. So much wonder to see when you have no expectations of how things should be. At one point we browse City Lights Bookstore and then head up the street to Cafe Trieste for coffee. I'm just learning about coffee, espresso is a new thing for me. So I order a cafe latte which comes in a soup bowl sized cup. In my mind, I think "latte" means a lot of coffee. We get buzzed on the coffee, draw in our sketchbooks in an almost perfect moment. Then breaking the silence a man with a goatee and beret stands up from his seat and says, " I've finished it. I've finished my poem." and he proceeds to read it aloud. He finishes and the patrons all applaud him. Wow! the perfect moment got even better.