It was December, and I woke up with chills, feeling lifeless hidden under a rolling sea of comforters. I bitterly pictured the effort it would take to fall out of bed and carry myself to the bathroom to get ready. That night I was to meet Christie at Coda for a night of food and jazz. I had spent previous days anxious to listen to some good live music, but my desire to go was getting pummeled by my aching body. Still, not wanting to flake out on my friend, I focused what was left of my strength to get ready and make the long trek to the Mission in San Francisco. Feverish and slightly delusional, I was near to tears in pain as I rode bart. Before meeting with Christie, I made a stop to Walgreens to collect some friends: tylenol, cold/flu/headache medicine, orange juice and a jug of bottled water. Meeting up with Christie, we walked a couple blocks (well, she scampered in the way a petite person like she is does, and I trudged along as a bigger, sicker person does) to Coda. It was a gorgeous interior with exposed, natural wood rafters and a welcoming mood. I ordered truffle ravioli and guzzled hot water. The searing hot liquid coated my throat with a soothing effect, and I started to feel like my sickness would allow me to enjoy the night.
A small jazz group started off the night with an assortment of original music, then later joined a big band for some delightful Christmas, jazz and big band music. For a moment I forgot the sickness growing inside me.
By the end of the night I desperately needed some sleep, floating away in a daze from the restaurant back home. Despite my sickness, I deeply enjoyed the night at Coda with deliciously sinful food and heart-lifting music.
(I spent the following two weeks sick in bed.)