Bay Hopping

I spent most of today traipsing about the city and finally just sat down to rest and regroup. It seems like the only time I have the energy to write is the weekend, so I’m trying to carry over the momentum from last weekend and put finger to keyboard again today.

Today was another rare day when I availed myself of public transportation and crossed the bay into the big city. For those of you not familiar with the area, I should mention that it’s pretty much understood here that when you say ‘the city,’ you mean San Francisco. Apparently Oakland is like a backwater hick town in comparison. Or something. Anyway, I went to San Francisco. That’s what I’m trying to say. I had an appointment with a friend of friend who does massage and reiki.

I took BART to the Mission (or ‘the Mish’, if you’re hipster and annoying), which has historically been home to many of the city’s Mexican-American immigrants. It’s been a roughish area in the past, but is being increasingly gentrified and – as tends to happen – is now full of trendy coffee shops, pseudo-dive bars, and vegan restaurants (and yes, I’ve been to all of the above, and yes, I still think gentrification in this area is a tricky thing). For example, when Gina was in town, we hit the Mission and visited: a) an independent bookstore, b) a vegan sushi restaurant, and c) a coffee house with a communist theme (red walls, hammer and sickle on the cups, etc.) Enough said.

Having now gotten lost a few times in the city, it’s becoming clear that the locals don’t conceive of directions and space in quite the same way those wacky Tucsonans did. Now that I finally learned how to orient myself in a city by North-South-East-West, I find that it’s completely useless in the Bay Area. Finding myself this morning on 24th Street looking for due west, I asked a kindly postman if he knew which way I was facing.

“Way?” he said.

“Yeah, I’m looking for west.”

He turned slowly in a circle, glanced back and me and said, “where are you trying to GET?”

“Church Street.”

“Oh, it’s back that way,” he said, pointing over his shoulder.

(I think I need to just buy a compass.)

Twenty steep minutes later I found myself in Noe Valley, or what my San Francisco guidebook tells me used to be called “Nowhere Valley” and what I’ve frequently heard referred to as “Baby Valley.” It’s the kind of place where the sidewalks are chock-a-block full of tastefully dressed young couples pushing baby strollers, and where every other corner is inhabited by a coffee shop or brunch place or cutesy high-end boutique. It’s not generally my kind of place, but is improved much by the beautiful architecture and the cozy little Lovejoy’s Tea Room, which dear Gina and I checked out last month after seeing the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the MOMA. It was exactly what it sounds like. A tea room. And it was lovely and joyful and all.

As I do nearly every time I find myself in the city, I took the opportunity again today to go on several completely pointless rambles. From Noe Valley, I walked up Dolores to Market Street, stopping to take pictures at Mission Dolores Park. I walked down Market, stopping to check out Mayor Newsom’s little Victory Garden experiment in front of City Hall, and then walked northward a bit into the Tenderloin District. I’ve been meaning to check out Brenda’s French Soul Food, which is the closest thing to home-style comfort food I’ve been able to find. But after a glance at the crowd huddled outside, and the lengthy wait list, I boomeranged back down to Market and braved the throngs of European tourists to weave my way back to BART. As has become tradition, a grabbed a few fragrant macarons at La Boulange on my way back east, and a loaf of Acme Bread from the shop in the Ferry Building.

And good God does that look like a lot of pointless name- and link-dropping. Sorry, forgive me. The people who’ve lived here will get it. I probably lost everyone else at “24th Street.” So, to you guys, ummm, I’ll show you when you get here.

Yvetching

So…yeah. It’s awfully hard to start blogging again after taking a break. I feel rusty already, like I don’t really want to write anything but really I should. I find myself torn between making my life here sound all awesome and squared-away and the realities of how much more complicated than that it is. I’m also writing with the knowledge that many of my friends are keeping tabs on me by checking here. And frankly, I don’t want their only update of me to be a cheerless ramble about how self-consciously out of place I feel some days. Because that just begets worried e-mails to which I have to reply explaining myself

I have to keep reminding myself that I’m allowed to be a bit of mope right now. That what I’m doing is difficult, and that sad things have happened, and really that I don’t have to fake it for anyone’s benefit. So, that said, I’m basically existing right now. I have moments of happiness, and I laugh from time to time, and I’m slowly making friends at work and starting to feel more comfortable in my new habitat. But I’ll be honest in saying that a lot of it is just going through the motions. I get up and do the things I know I’m expected to do as a responsible adult, and I push myself to do the exploring I feel like I should want to do. But some of it I do without much joy. I want to believe that this is all just part of the adjustment period, but I’ve had a few moments lately where I’ve thought, wow, this is what my life could be like, forever. And more than anything, that makes me feel tired. Just tired.

And listen, seriously, this is not said to beget even more worried e-mails. I think I’m feeling all bottled up with emotion I haven’t been able to express, so much so that my throat and chest feel heavy with it. And I need to shake it all out by way of long depressing posts for a bit. Bear with me. I know it’ll get better.

Ancient history

Update 8/16/08: Hrm, I seem to have never posted this. I wrote it in May and am posting it now. Just. Because. Not much seems to have changed, frankly.

Last week, I was sitting on the leg press machine at the school rec center, and – glancing up – noticed a face walking toward me that immediately sent me into full-on cognitive dissonance. Cocking my head to the side like a curious puppy and letting out a smaller “er?”, I was met by the smiling mug of a guy I briefly dated in Atlanta. We had dinner once at the Vortex, and drinks at the Brewhouse, and the last night I saw him, he kissed me on the forehead as we parted. Ahh, the forehead kiss. Secretly code for, “I like you. But like a little sister. And I’m getting no closer to your mouth.”

It was weird seeing him in Tucson, and something about our talking about the old days seems to have knocked loose a few bolts in my brain. Because since that moment, I’ve been thinking more and more about coming home. I’m not sure how it happened, really, as I’ve spent a lot of time and energy talking about how I needed to leave Atlanta in order to really grow up. How a fresh start somewhere else would do me a lot of good. And, if you asked, I could still tick off all the things about Atlanta that drive me nuts. But still, I’m left with this nagging sense that everything I left behind is still sitting there, beckoning me back with its comforting familiarity…sitting in Katie’s kitchen drinking wine and pretending to help cook, having hungover breakfast grub at Ria’s with Zoe, driving out to the boonies to jump on Amber’s trampoline, hitting the Dekalb Farmer’s Market for coffee beans, and cafe au lait, and fresh vegetables.

I’m not sure if it was seeing my old friend, or the pictures I saw of Cabbagetown in the aftermath of the recent tornado, or flipping through a friend’s Flickr pictures of parties and people and neighborhoods I love. But the end result is…part of me just wants to be home again.

I just don’t know anymore where I do belong, except maybe close to the people I love and trust and who love and trust me back. And I feel like maybe I can’t keep chasing down new cities forever. I just don’t know what to do now. And for the record, I really fucking hate this.

Progress

Okay, so to prove that I’m not completely despondent and lolling about in my own pity, here’s photographic evidence that I’m marching bravely forward. This morning, I got up and poached my very first egg, courtesy of directions by the brilliant Smitten Kitchen. I toasted a slice of Acme sour batard*, plopped the egg on it, smushed it all together, and feasted. Hoorah. New kitchen skill, learned.

Then I ventured forth into the woods and went on a cedar-scented hike with a bunch of strangers. It was organized by a Bay Area young professionals organization I just joined (I know, right? I’m such a yuppie). We traversed the Huckleberry Botanic Preserve and basically did a lot of shop talk and networking amongst the foliage. It was a little exhausting, but I met a few nice people who shared their snacks. Plus, it was breathtakingly beautiful. So, bonus points. Here’s a picture.

There’s Oakland in the foreground (see why they they call us the sunny side of the bay?), the great Bay itself, and then San Francisco beyond. So, yeah, pretty. Fun. Etc.

*For those of you thinking, Acme? Sour Batard? Why not just say toast, Heather? Well, you are clearly not a San Franciscan. These people take their bread products pretty damn seriously. For a fun start to a conversation, mention a morning bun from La Farine to any serious East Bay foodie and let ‘em go off…

God, or Gods

Alright, friends, since I still don’t have a whole lot to write, I offer instead the beautiful words of my dear friend Maisa Taha. Maisa wrote an essay that she recently read on a public radio station in Tucson. The audio for the July 4th program is here (click on “Listen to July 4, 2008 Edition with host Mark McLemore”). The entire program lasts about 29 minutes, and Maisa’s portion starts at about 8:22 (that podcast will likely only be available for the next week, so get thee there quickly). For another great commentary on Maisa’s essay, visit our friend Eva’s post about it at Tucson Querido.

Maisa is one of those people you feel better just for knowing. She has done some amazing research on immigration in Spain, and recently completed a 75-mile migrant walk through the Sonoran Desert to commemorate the lives of those who’ve died trying to cross the U.S.-Mexico border.

Essays like Maisa’s, and these sorts of efforts in general, make it very clear to me that my two years in Tucson weren’t wasted. If I was ambivalent about immigration rights before I moved there, my experiences in Tucson made me a staunch, if quiet, advocate. I can respect the fear that breeds anti-immigration sentiments, but having lived in the Sonoran Desert for a scant two years, and worked side-by-side with people who study border deaths, there is simply no way I can be dispassionate about the lives lost – or the desperation that drives people to risk their lives trying to reach the States.

If you have any interest at all in immigration policy, or about the consequences of recent laws governing crossings on the border, I would urge you to give the whole program a listen. If there is any part of me that still regrets having left grad school, it’s mostly when I hear stories like Maisa’s, and remember how much work there is still to be done.

One for Julie

And, here, while I have them, visual aids!

One of the many awesome things about the friends I made in Tucson is the fact that so many of them are from the Bay Area. What’s even better is how many of them love sharing their Bay Area experiences with me. That means when I e-mail my friend Julie to say, “Julie, where can I get a used kitchen table?”, I know that — more than a mere recommendation — I’ll get an experience. For example, to said question, I got the reply:

Hmmmm…You might try Urban Ore on 7th at Murray in Berkeley. That’s where I did most of my furniture thrifting in Oakland. You might need to refinish the piece, but I guarantee it’ll be interesting and nice. There’s another ‘recycling’ place across the street from Urban Ore, but I can’t remember its name. You could try there as well. Also, if you’re in the neighborhood anyway, there’s a great brunch place kitty corner from UO on Murray. One of my faves: Jimmy Beans. So, you can have breakfast, go shopping at UO and its neighbor and then go to the fancy taqueria to the west of UO for lunch! The taqueria is owned by Alice Waters’ brother.

And hell if she wasn’t right. Observe:

Table (minus the leaf I still need to attach), vintage chair, and vintage stool from Urban Ore for $75 total. Check.

Tofu scramble from Jimmy Beans: magnificent! Double check.

And every intention to go check out the taqueria the next time I’m at Urban Ore. Triple check.

Vicarious

Yikes, I’m behind in writing here, aren’t I? Sadly, this frequency of posting is probably about as good as it’s going to be for a while. I think somehow I’m better off not writing much right now. Things are just too transitional for me to be writing them down in a public forum, even if it is mostly just my friends reading it. I guess I’m a bit hesitant to post many of my thoughts yet, for fear that somehow they’ll stick and I won’t get to scrub them away and start over again when I change my mind. I feel like I started here in the Bay with a blank slate, and for the first time in a long time, I’m the only one who’s writing the story. So I guess I want to be damn sure it’s a good story before I start making premature proclamations about how splendid or awful anything is.

Does that make sense?

So, the briefest, least permanent version I can give of how I’m doing right now is “fine, just fine.” I’m settling into a routine, which is good for me. I get up before 7 every day, have a cup of coffee, and walk to work. I work eight or so hours, walk to the Y, work out, and walk the rest of the way home. If I’m feeling adventurous, I’ll take breaks during the day and run to the post office, or the downtown library, or any one of the cutesy little cafes or deli’s or diners near work. My life here feels small (in a good way) and compact, and I kinda like it so far.

On the weekends, I’ve been venturing up to Berkeley, or taking the metro into San Francisco to see bits of the city. I’m making friends, slowly, and seeing things I’ve been planning to see for months. I’ve also started checking things off the lists friends in Tucson made for me of all the things I had to experience in their stead. Plus, I’ve started adding a few of my own. I can’t even begin to encapsulate all the great experiences I’ve had so far, which is really the most legitimate reason I can think of to write here more often, before I go and forget it all. I can tell you, though, that within a fifteen minute walk from my apartment is a spot on a hillside that has such a beautiful view of the Bay, it leaves me breathless every time I crest it (and not just from the steepness of the incline). If there were ever a better place to grieve and recover, I can’t imagine it

So, there. There’s a tiny update for now. More when I have it.

A post, just because

It’s Friday, and I’m whipped. I still don’t have anything interesting to say, except that I just read this post on Shapely Prose, and I laughed so loudly I’m afraid I disturbed my neighbors. Do yourselves a favor and read at least as far as the bit about the Care Bears.

And maybe, just maybe, if I have the energy next week, I’ll tell you about some of the dates I’ve been on recently, including one with a guy who couldn’t even say the word “gay”. He told me instead that someone he knew “didn’t swing that way.” Jesus H, people. I moved all the way to San Francisco, and I’m still managing to attract close-minded wackadoos. My date this weekend should offer a little respite, I think. The person in question seems chill and well-traveled. Plus, he suggested meeting up in North Beach to see Beach Blanket Babylon, which is apparently a San Fran institution. I’m already impressed. More soon, hopefully.

Picture ellipse here

People! How are you? I’m swell. And God does it just feel like I’ve been gone forever. I have so much to say, but so little time or energy to say it. The briefest version of an update goes like this: work is awesome, my place is almost unpacked, I’m one father shorter than I was three weeks ago, but all in all, things could be worse.

My head is seriously fried, and I’m afraid memorizing facts has sapped my creative energies. But I’ll be back. Soon! Only ’soon’ is relative, isn’t it? I could mean days soon, or I could mean months soon. Or I could just end up writing another post in a week explaining why I’m still not writing. Let’s just say I’m cocooning. It’s snuggly but constricting in here.

In the meantime, here’s the song I currently can’t stop playing on repeat: Kings of Leon, “Day Old Blues”

One week gone

Well, I couldn’t stay away for long, now could I? Even when I have nothing funny or interesting to say, I come back here and start typing until something makes sense again.

I start my new job tomorrow, and that is about the most motivational thing I have going for me right now. As nervous as I am about everything I’ll have to learn, I’m also aching to be productive again. I’ve kept myself fairly busy this week with unpacking and settling in. I’ve also done a lot of driving around Oakland and walking around my neighborhood, and even ventured as far away as Berkeley a few times. But mostly, I’ve been grounded pretty close to home.

I have list upon list of things my friends told me I had to see, and my own promises to myself to get across the bay and into San Francisco before I started work. But mostly I’ve just wanted to sit around and not think for a while. That meant that I spent most of the last week: watching DVD’s, crying, dozing, eating an entire bag of Trader Joe’s peanut-butter filled pretzel bites, taking baths, and listening to “Carry Me, Ohio” so many times I’ve memorized it. In the meantime, I moved all my stuff in, met some nice neighbors who helped me lift a few heavy things, and finally got an Internet connection.

At one point in the move, it looked like my red couch wasn’t going to fit through my tiny 1920’s doorway. As a result, I spent an entire day feeling like someone had just kicked my dog to death. It seems that losing your city, your home, and your father in one week will have a tendency to make you irrationally attached to an over-stuffed couch. In the end, I ran into one of the aforementioned neighbors in the hallway, and he and a friend angled and wedged the couch all the way into my living room. I was so ecstatically happy at their success that I couldn’t stop laughing. Then I offered to buy him a six pack. And, I can’t be sure, but I think I may have offered him a blowjob too.

Now that things are all settling into place, I’m actually feeling a lot calmer. The crying jags have stopped, and my morning run would suggest that I’ve got most of my energy back. Beyond that, I can’t say that I feel that much differently than I did a week ago. If anything, I feel closer to my father now that I ever have. I’ve been talking to him out loud, calling him names, apologizing, wishing him well. I got over the unfairness of his timing a few days ago, and have been getting daily report-backs from my brother. Then I read his obituary online, and choked up a little at its mention of me.

There are a lot of things I’ll never understand about my father, and things I wanted to know that I’ll never get to ask him. But I know, above all else, that he loved me.

I’m also beginning to recognize the parts of myself that were like him, and how much I didn’t want to acknowledge that. Mostly how proud we both were, and how it led to us not speaking for the last eight years of his life. I told my stepmother on the phone that I had regrets about that, but I’m not sure if I said it for her benefit or my own. In truth, I can’t hold onto any regrets about my decision to discontinue contact with him. I did what I felt was right at the time, and he did the same. It was what it was. And now he is gone, and I have to go on living my new life.

So, tonight I’m going to shine my work shoes, pack a lunch, and lay out my work clothes for the morning. Tomorrow, I’ll start anew. And before long, I hope to have more interesting stories to tell than tales of eating junk food and offering fellatio to virtual strangers.