Letters to America and beyond

The bank clerk eyes me warily.
“Yes, $50 in quarters please.”
She hands me 4 heavy rolls.
“Vending machine, San Quentin prison, I’m told I need to take $50 in quarters.”
She looks curious.
“I’m visiting my penfriend tomorrow on death row.” I announce this in a similar fashion to how I might say “I’m going for a day trip to Napa Valley.”
Putting the coins in my bag, I think about how long it will take to put them all in a vending machine.
We’d sped past San Quentin prison the previous day on the ferry from Marin County to San Francisco. If it wasn’t for the watchtowers and the glint of sunlight on the sharpwire fences, the majestic cream building dominating the coastline could be a glorious chateau. We passed Alcatraz too. It felt like Nicola’s own prison tour of California.

Early the next day, the taxi drops me off at the prison entrance. Desperately hoping that I’ve adhered to the strict clothing rules and that my attire is shapeless enough, I pass through security, with my billowing pink trousers making me look like I’ve arrived for a slumber party. I show my passport to the stern faced guard and feel guilty.
Clutching a transparent bag with my hoard of quarters and photo tokens, I follow signs to the main building. My wrist is stamped with invisible luminous ink by a guard at the door. I notice the 8 small cages, each of which is roughly the size of a small bathroom. Furnished with a table and 2 chairs, a couple of the cages are already inhabited by inmates wearing identical prison jackets.
I spot the vending machines filled with expensive and unappetising food. Agonising over what to choose for my penfriend whom I have never met, I opt for a burger and a coke. I am ushered, with my tray, into a sterile, magnolia cage to wait. I make the microwaved burger look as attractive as it can look in the stark light, on a napkin with a sachet of sauce for garnish.
I hear a jangling noise, and I stand up to say hello as the guard takes off the handcuffs and locks us both in the cage. We hug for 3 seconds.
We sit and talk for 4 hours. We've written to each other for 7 years. He didn't tell me he’s trying not to eat meat!
I exchange a photo token with a guard who takes a picture through the bars.
“No touching!” he says as we stand side by side smiling through the acrylic and mesh at the camera.
Then it's goodbye. Time has flown.
I show my stamp.
I'm free to leave.
Outside I see the sea.
In the distance, I spot the ferry,speeding past the bay.