I'M GETTING OVER my fear of flying real quick. My new phobia is going to be ever even leaving the Bay Area. Take Wyoming: Big, beautiful state. I remember seeing it from an airplane once, going, Wow. Beautiful. Mountains and shit ... –In the middle of the night, on Route 80, you can't see a thing and it's snowing like crazy, even though it's April. We'd left the Bay Area in shorts and T-shirts, my brother and cousin and me, and now we were scrambling around the van looking for clothes to put on. The heater was broken. It was an insane, impromptu road trip; none of us had packed very well. I had neglected, among many things, to even consider this column.

Sleep was something else. We had laid a futon out in back and were taking turns getting cozy and comfortable and drooly all over each other's pillows. And now this: Wyoming, a sheet of middle-of-the-night ice from Rock Springs to Cheyenne. No fun.

Trucks were turned over and jackknifed on both sides of the road, campers full of kids fishtailing along with their usual impunity. Vans full of Leones were fishtailing too. The wind was whipping snow across the road in front of us, behind us, and under us, slithery and sexy. We saw an accordioned ambulance. I tried driving, and I tried passenging, and I didn't know which was worse for my brain cells, but I had the zany idea, hyperventilating into my seat belt, that this would have been an example of a good time to be on the other side of the clouds. Right?

Ah, if only logic were logical, or possible.

With dawn things got wet in addition to slippery, and it got even harder to see. The wipers were glazed with ice and the windshield washer fluid wouldn't squirt. A truck flew past, splashing wet sandy slime all over the windshield, and that was it. For a while.

"I can't see shit. Can you?" I said to my brother, quoting our favorite-ever line from any Terry Bradshaw movie.

I pulled over into what seemed like it would be the breakdown lane, probably, and rolled to a stop. Phenomenon got out and fwapped the wipers, cleared the windshield, got back in.

Now that we could see in front of us, another truck rumbled by, slushing up my side window and mirror, so how was I going to get back out into traffic? I rolled down the window and started to wipe off the mirror, and in a perfect silent-movie slapstick tribute moment, another truck rolled by, splashing sandy salty road slush slime onto my face and glasses.

"I can see shit," I said, "and smell it and taste it."

It was someone else's turn to drive.

In back, in no kind of mood to sleep or not sleep, I wiped my face off on an oil rag, leaned back into our pillow pile, and sunk my hands into my coat pockets, fixing to cry.

What was I doing out here in our country, again, in vans, in trouble, at my age? Neglecting my wife, our new place, my chickens, and, for our purposes, this column. My hand settled around a folded piece of pocket paper and I had this thought: I thought, wouldn't it be cool if this piece of paper in this pocket of this old coat I'd thank-god grabbed on my way out the door were a take-out menu from a forgotten restaurant I'd been to but never written about?

Guess what ...

St. Francis Fountain is San Francisco's "oldest ice cream parlor." "Since 1918." "Take-out and parties." "Destination for lovers." "Novelty candies and gifts."

I went there fairly recently, for real, with my two new favorite lovers, One-Cents and Red Cheeks, or whatever their names are. I even remember what I got: biscuits and gravy with two eggs and potatoes ($7) – the Country Breakfast, they call it.

The thing about the place is, yeah, they've always been there, but now they have new owners – the Boogaloo people, I think, or some Valencia Street no-longer-new Mission makeover takeover artists. And, yeah, it's not dirt cheap, by my book, but the funny thing is that the St. Francis Fountain never was. Not even in the old days. It used to be overpriced and bad.

Now it's overpriced and good. Or worth it, would be another way of looking at it. The biscuits were good, with plenty of chunky sausage gravy; the eggs seemed actually fresher, brighter-yolked than usual, outside of my house.

And they have breakfasts called Chef's Mess and Nebulous Potato Thing. Burgers. Plus the fountain: old-fashioned milk shakes, floats. Actual coffee. And the candy counter, which is pretty nifty.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's my turn to drive again.

Nebraska is another big state.

St. Francis Fountain. 2801 24th St. (at York), S.F. (415) 826-4200. Daily: 8 a.m.-9 p.m. Takeout available. Beer and mimosas. No credit cards. Wheelchair accessible.

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