I keep trying to put myself out there in the desert, but it never feels true. Photos, stories and news reports filter out. But the specifics of the experience are distant.

After drinks at the bar we ended up at a friend's house for dinner. There are many apartments in the building, and tonight several of the apartments all joined together to create a multi-level feast. Apps on the top floor. Entree on the second. Desert down below, as it should be. And after hanging out with our friend and meeting these new fun people, we took Lu's bike from the basement where she had stored it for the evening, and together we rode it home.

She sat on the crossbar of the frame. I pedaled with my knees pointing up and out. My arms encompassed her as I gripped the handlebars, steering. Page street was quiet and the moon hung low over the distant hills of Oakland and beyond. It was the same moon that hung fat over the playa tonight. The bike we rode was covered in purple fur, decorated with daisies all around the frame. The purple furry basket held my backpack.

We marveled at how the playa had grown. The pavement. The artcars undecorated, parked in rows on either side. Our tent had a door, and a lock, and worst of all, stairs!

We felt the hot playa breeze on our cheeks this eve. We basked in the cool glow of the last summer moon. We coasted on memory to the apartment we're staying in, the place where we live when we can't be in our tent in Black Rock City.

(image from Tiffany Brown / Las Vegas Sun)