Home is where fog shimmers up a hill. Home is where a vest is nice, but not necessary. Home is crossing through the Grant Street gate and landing in syncopated haze. Home is long slivers of vibrant jalapenos nestled amid pickled cucumbers, carrots, cilantro, and sweet-savory succulent shredded pork. Home is a random run-in with an old friend while an ex-mayor strolls by. Home is a wooden bar— a jazz filled joint brimming with the bustle-din of how-do-you-do? And home is staying, letting loose, losing time, finding friends— finding steps on the sidewalk leading— leading onward, leading home.