Phoenix Rising

The mythical phoenix, the bird of destruction and rebirth, stands as a fitting parallel to anyone striving to create.

You know how it goes, the battle between yourself and your better self, the present you and the you imagined and strived for. The demons of doubt and procrastination fed by fear are the flames engulfing the phoenix, seeking to destroy. But it is in this moment of destruction when the switch happens, and the world turns over. You see this is not the way it has to be: the fire can be manipulated into something powerfully transformative. Being burned and scarred is a hazard of the process, but this is how the flames re-create. In the midst of the pain, you see beyond and within at once. You are no longer bounded by your fears, your self-imposed constraints. You are infinite. You are morphed. You are the phoenix rising.

Elemental Battle

A cresting sun climbs over the golden hills, igniting the sheet of fog laying at the feet of the mountains. The sun eats up the clouds on its westerly path, spreading warmth through the mists trapped between tall redwoods, a solitary palm tree, and rows of houses hiding below the green-gold canopy. And there you see it, across the great expanse of bridge and water, that cluster of a city perched on the hilly shore with the looming TV tower watching the goings-on below: San Francisco. The fog continues to pour towards the outstretched arm towers of the Golden Gate and crawl up and over the hilly ridges of the Coastal Range down to the open expanse of water, but the mounting sun, with its golden beams of heat, beats down on the fog and destroys it. At least for now. At least till later. For the tide of battle ebbs and flows from victory to defeat, as the sun, after reaching its proud height of victory in the blue sky, fades and retreats in a shrouded mist, over the horizon, and into the wide expanse of the cooling ocean. Then the sea rises again and forms its terra firma presence, as the mist creeps up the now cold sand and through the neighborhoods of the city, forcing the inhabitants to retreat indoors. And the fog plays in the streets and stretches its long arms over its former self in the Bay, swirls up and around Sather Tower, and makes its nightly climb up into the hills. And just as the land ocean reaches the pinnacle of its reign, a golden beam of light pierces it through, as the cloud races back down the hills in defeat, towards the waiting water.

Another day begins.

The Insanity of Craigslist House Hunting in San Francisco

Well friends, here I am, a year and some more later. I didn’t really do that good of a job of keeping up with this writing and sharing my exploration of California life. But then again, I often realize that I’m an over-sharer as it is, so I am trying to curb that tendency of mine. However, there is one facet of my life here that, when I tell friends and family about it, they can scarcely believe it. So I thought I would share my ordeals about the one word that immediately makes me cringe: housing.

As some of you know, I have technically been homeless since mid-December. Trying to find housing in the Bay Area is almost as easy as finding true love, so yes, it is almost impossible, yet you are always searching and hoping for it.

Things operate differently here than in most other places. The hunt for housing is a vicious, cut-throat search where every minute counts. A slight over-exaggeration, you say? Ha, don’t I wish!

A few weeks ago, I and eleven other women were invited to an open house to meet with the housemates. In other words, we were all gathered together to compete for the one available room. Us twelve women were the chosen few, we were told, because the room ad on Craigslist, posted only for a mere three days, elicited over 350 responses. At those odds, I could win the lottery or be accepted into Columbia’s Journalism school! The inundated inbox is the norm for most housing ads in the Bay Area.

Now these open houses are just horrid things. Imagine this: you are desperate to find a place to live, you’ve spent hours and hours e-mailing and digging through Craigslist, and then, finally, a response shows up in your inbox! The housemates, overwhelmed with responses, just write a form letter to you saying to show up at this address at this time for their open house. All of your hopes are pinned on this one chance. You arrive a little late, not wanting your desperation to be so blatantly obvious,  and you are welcomed in to the house only to find that thirty people have already beaten you there. So then, after the tour of the house, you all crowd together in an anxious huddle in the kitchen, because, that’s right, like a good portion of San Francisco houses the living room was converted to a bedroom to lower the rent costs. You try and make conversation with the housemates and make yourself known, but you don’t want to be like one of those bombastic and bossy fools you see trying to shove their way into the good graces of the housemates. It’s an awkwardly delicate balance to strike. One sly trick I was told to employ from my co-workers: bring cookies. So at this particular open house, I did just that. I flirted a bit with one of the guys and offered him a plateful of chocolate chip oatmeal cookies I had stayed up late making the night before. Still standing in the kitchen, we were all gently persuaded to leave to make room for the hordes of other people coming in through the front door. But oh, hey, could we sign this notebook going around with our name, contact info, and something they could remember us by. So there it was: Kristi Arbogast, my e-mail, and the sarcastic girl who brought you cookies. I was reduced to a mere sentence.

I never heard from them.

Actually going to the open houses and interviews is one of the middle steps in a long, utterly degrading process.

Step one is leaving the last place you lived, because most houses will ask you why you left your last place. Mine was a messy, awkward ordeal involving my roommate’s parents supposedly having a trial separation. And so, having nowhere else to go, her mom came from Vancouver to Berkeley to come live with us in our tiny apartment. I won’t get into the details of how things disintegrated when my roommate told me I would have to move out but I could stay as long as I needed to, but then changing her mind and saying that no, I actually had to be out of the apartment before I left to go home for Christmas. I had already been house hunting for a month at that point with no luck, because really who looks for a new roommate between Thanksgiving and Christmas? But I packed up my life yet again after only living there for less than three months, and I moved all of my belongings to a friend’s house before flying home for Christmas.

The second step in this process requires an inordinate amount of time, stamina, and an open mind: Craigslisting. I don’t even know how to calculate the amount of hours I have spent on that horrid site. Every day for weeks I would go on, tabs upon tabs open in my web browser, looking for ones that would be a good fit. I spent four months doing this. Of course, I took some days off here and there to keep from going completely mental. I looked at renting in the East Bay, renting in San Francisco, I looked at sublets all over the Bay Area, and I even upped my rent price really high. I wrote over a hundred places, most of whom I never heard back from. You find a really great home that you desperately want to live in, and you try to not get your hopes up, but in your few free moments you imagine yourself living there, eating at the community dinners they host, or planting vegetables in their amazing backyard. But then they never write you. It is a very disheartening experience where you continuously get rejected and rejected and rejected again.

But then there are the places you wouldn’t really want to live at. And let me tell you, Craigslist in the Bay Area is full of them. I have seen it all from houses talking about sex positivity, massage parties, naked yoga classes being held in the home, tantric parties, bowls upon bowls of pot, militant feminists, ultra vegans, and houses for only trans and queer peoples. Oh, and I can’t forget the house that said they had erotic art hanging on their walls. But I think the craziest one of them all goes to this response to my roommate ad I put on Craigslist. A twenty-something married couple who lived in a home with horrible cell reception, lead paint on the walls, and oh yes, thin walls, said the wife. Why does that matter? Because her and her husband are polyamorous and his girlfriend comes over a few times a week, and, oh yes, they are into BDSM and it can sound quite scary, she said. Oh and she doesn’t have a corresponding partner so she just sleeps on the couch during those nights. To say I was disgusted and disturbed and mortified at that depravity, well, that would be an understatement. So yes, as you can see, this whole experience has taught me much about the whole array of human existence. Wow.

Step three includes the whole interviewing process. You have to act fast on these and rearrange your whole schedule to accommodate them or else someone else is going to snag it before you. Trust me. There is always twenty other people clawing at your heels. You meet, you greet, you repeat the same spiel about yourself and how you are such an amazing roommate, and you try and determine in 30 minutes if you can share the same space with these people for the next several months. Sometimes the questioning can get intense, like at this one housing interview I went to. When the girl discovered I was a Christian, she told me how the last girl who lived there was also a Christian, but she said some things that seemed to offend the girl and the girl ended up moving out because of that. So, said the girl fixing me with an unfriendly stare as she put her hand on her boyfriend’s leg to keep him quiet, tell me what you think of women’s rights and homosexuality? Talk about a grilling! I said I am fine with both because everyone, regardless of gender or sexual orientation, is equal and made in the image of God and are all deserving of love. She didn’t seem entirely satisfied. I left feeling discriminated against for my faith.

After the interviews, you wait and wait for the houses to finish with their other interviews and get back to you. Most times you never hear from them again. Every once in a while you get a “sorry, we decided to go with someone else”. Or you get what happened to me this past weekend. I went to a housing interview, and I really liked the roommate and the house seemed nice enough and in a great neighborhood. She basically said I could have it if I wanted, so the next day I told her I’d take it. Great, she said, but is it ok if I meet with the other roommate first? We tried to arrange a time for this weekend, so I finally heard back from her this past Friday night. “I’m so sorry” (my stomach dropped) “but the other roommate decided to go with an old friend instead” (tears welling up in my eyes) “good luck with your search!” I started crying right there in front of everyone on the subway. Months and months of looking, and I thought I could finally be at rest and start piecing together a normal life again. All those hopes were shattered in that one, simple text. But, it seems those tears triggered something in the heavens, because I got a text an hour later saying the friend backed out and I was back in! So friends, after four months of looking and two and a half months of homelessness, I may finally have found a home! I’m signing the lease in the next few days, and only after that can I breath again.

I can finally relax and take joy in living here again. I finally have my life back!!

When I first moved out here back in September 2011, I came out here without a place to live (or without knowing anyone or having a job). So I did what I needed to: I slept at friends of friends or relatives of family friends. I also couchsurfed at this colorful old hotel turned home in a seedy part of Oakland, and I even hopped a train to Sacramento and stayed with Lee and Peggy, dear friends who I had only met via the blogs of CBC Radio (and who, based on their concert-going tendencies, hanging out with rock bands, and late nights, you’d never guess they were older than my parents!). This whole ordeal was the most unnerving thing I have had to do, and I don’t think I have ever felt as unsettled and set adrift as I did then.

This time around my homelessness has been different. I now have a community, albeit a small one, that has vowed to take care of me. For the past two months, I have been staying with my incredibly gracious friends, Nicole and Peter, in their guest room. They have been beyond welcoming and kind to me, and it is because of their generosity that my anxiety and nervousness and despair has been kept reasonably in check this time around. I have also had the the offers of couches from my old college RA, Sarah Shubitowski, and her friend, who I had only met just once before she offered her home to me as well. Then my friend Lauren was going to let me stay in her room for two weeks while she was back home. I was able to rest easier knowing I was being cared for. And it seems now that my worrying and obsessing over housing may finally, FINALLY be at an end.

And this, my friends, is how I found a home in San Francisco.

We’re All Dying to Live: Observations #1

Long lost greetings!

A new post is incredibly overdue. So much has happened since my last post! I’ve  met new friends, toured a small part of the massive wine country here, started two jobs, made trips to Sacramento to visit with CBC Radio 3 friends, participated in protests, etc. But that narrative thread will take a long time to unravel, so until I have more energy and time (and can edit my photos!), please let this window into my life suffice.

Every day I am inundated with hordes of strangers as I make my way into San Francisco for work. These people swarm and flow all around me: up the stairs, at the ticket kiosks, sitting on the benches deep underground, crammed next to me on the seats, or running up escalators behind me. In an effort to keep my sanity, I often bury myself in a book or some sort of podcast. I have become a devoted fan of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me, This American Life, On the Media, and CBC Radio 3’s weekly podcasts. But that can only entertain me for so long on my hour long commutes, so instead I have decided to become the observer. I secretly gawk, awkwardly observe, and fastidiously document these strangers who are a part of my life, whether I reach out and break that wall between us or not.

Monday through Saturday involves me getting up early, walking down the main artery of Berkeley to the subway station, and taking that under the waters that are spanned by the Bay Bridge. For Job #1 I only take BART (that’s Bay Area Rapid Transit, the subway system) into the city. For Job #2 I take both the BART and a MUNI Streetcar, which runs down iron tracks embedded in the extra lane on the road.

Here are the people of San Francisco from today for you to discover:

White, male, young 30-something. Dressed in a pinstriped, black business suit he stepped onto BART at MacArthur station with all the bombastic pomp needed to wear what he was wearing on his face: a big, thick mustache complete with curled up, waxed ends. He reminded me of Captain Hook, and I wondered whether he had his own Smee at home that so carefully coiffed his mustache with his own earwax.

Standing across the way in the car was an older, 70-something white female. With the white permed hair of the elderly and big glasses, she peered furtively around at everyone. She knew I was watching her. But how could I not?! Because on her feet were the most ridiculous shoes for such a woman to be wearing, because from the ankle down she looked like Michael Jackson. Impeccably shiny black shoes with bright purple socks pulled up to her ankle length black pants.

On the MUNI Streetcar after work, I kept getting glimpses of this person standing off to the side. It was difficult to see between everyone’s upraised arms, desperately clinging on to the bars to prevent falling into each other on the jerky stops and starts. Finally, I was able to see this person in all their purple glory. Atop the head sat a purple fedora, under it was brown, french braided hair. A purple scarf was tucked into the purple leather jacket that matched the purple shoes. But most surprising was the stubble on this person’s face, for it was indeed a man dressed like this. All you can do is laugh and say “Oh, San Francisco.”

Standing in the bowels of Embarcadero station, waiting for my next train to arrive, I overheard a white, 30-something businessman talking to his co-worker. He wore a gray sweater with a purple checkered button up shirt underneath. What is with the color purple today?! Oddly enough, I wore my purple sweater and purple hat today as well. But this man began talking about his recent trip to Hawaii and how it’s such a foreign place for most East Coasters. Apparently he was even able to go surfing with his boss and other transplant residents there. Well, lucky him! Now he’s back in San Francisco, working on Facebook privacy issues and choice of law work, whatever that means.

Then there was this young Southeast Asian couple, chattering away to each other. I had no idea what they were saying, but they were making each other laugh. The man had long fingernails, and I saw him pick his nose. Gross.

I was finally nearing my stop, when I noticed this middle-aged, white businesswoman looking at  a book filled with diagrams showing her how to sail. Then my gaze was diverted by the middle-aged, Asian businessman who just stepped onto the train. He was clutching a bunch of stapled papers in his hand, and he was nervously reading through what was on those papers.

While looking at everyone today, all of us going to and fro with our own stories, our own compartmentalized lives, I kept thinking about this song that I repeatedly listened to today at work. It’s by this fantastic Canadian artist named Rich Aucoin, who released an album of 21 songs (a total of 7 full songs, each with their own intro and outra, hence 21 songs). He had over 500 musicians help him create this masterpiece. But the song that stood out the most for me is this one called “Dying to Live” (listen!) where he took everyone’s voices that he individually recorded and mixed them all together to make this epic chorus. As I watched everyone today, I realized that we are all dying to live, dying to make our way, dying to experience all of life. At least that’s how I feel.

I’ll keep the observations coming. On people and other things here in the Bay.

Bikes, Armenians, and Goodbyes

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Hello to all of my friends and family!

A hearty apology for my incredible tardiness in writing a new blog entry. To say that my life has been hectic, stressful, and a smidgen bit crazy would be an understatement. Since I last wrote, I’ve bounced around to four other temporary homes, said goodbye to a dear friend, said goodbye to a new good friend, finally met a friend in person, and found a place to live!

Ok, but perhaps I should start in some sort of chronological order. And I have so much to tell, that I need to break this up into a few entries.

To start out with: the moving and goodbyes!

Jess and I left Kevin’s house in the Inner Richmond district of San Francisco and made the horrific trek with all of my belongings (I’m talking two giant suitcases, plus as many bags as you can strap on your shoulders) across the Bay to Lake Merritt in Oakland to stay with Steph. The journey, which was supposed to take one hour on public transit, ended up taking two hours due to…well, who knows! But the busses and BART were super crowded, as we made the bad decision to leave around rush hour. But we met up with Steph, who was my good friend Kelley’s friend, when she lived here in Oakland. I met and stayed with Steph when Kari and I made the initial visit out to California this past April. I was obviously won over by that visit, when I decided that California was all that I had imagined it to be and more. Steph’s roommate, Sarah, was out of town, revisiting her college friends in Los Angeles for a week, so we invaded her room. A few days passed and our duo became a trio, as Jess’ childhood friend from Australia, Alicia, happened to be touring the west coast of America. Meeting Alicia was great! She’s a very adventurous and well-centered person, whose advice I greatly valued.

When Alicia was with us, Jess and I took up the tourist mantle and showed her all over San Francisco. We ventured up to The Steps of Rome, this amazing little Italian restaurant in the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco. I had the most epic and delicious chocolate molten cake that was pretty much like having a foodgasm. Just sayin’. Our waiter was the quintessential Italian man: dark, hot, and very fashionable, which of course made the visit that much more fun. Over the next few days we rented bikes and rode through Golden Gate Park, which is San Francisco’s version of Central Park. We arrived an hour or two before sunset, so we drank wine with bread and cheese and then peddled through the glowing golden beams of a California sunset. Then we rushed back to Oakland so that we, well mostly me, could go to an Armenian Food Festival and Bazaar.

Now I don’t think I can adequately explain how excited I was to go to this festival. For my entire life, whenever I told people I was Armenian, I would usually have to explain myself. But to finally be in a place where there were hundreds of Armenians gathered together was…well, in a word, satisfying. The food and the music and the people were all familiar to me. I saw an older Armenian woman who looked just like my great Aunt Annie, as I downed some cheese boeregs. Yum! And then the traditional dancing and music began… It was beautiful to watch and everyone it seemed had this innate ability to dance in time with each other, as big circles of dancing men and women, young and old alike, swirled in front of the band.

But then Jess, Alicia, and I stepped outside and a conversation was struck up with these two twenty-something Armenian siblings, Rose and Greg. They were warm, friendly, and understandably really confused by our stories of how we knew each other and for how long and where each of us was from or going to. But I swapped contact information with Greg, as he’s a major networker and promised to invite me to some young professional get-togethers that he puts on. I’m excited to go to one!

Another thing Jess, Alicia, and I realized we had to do before they left San Francisco was to actually see the Golden Gate Bridge. Now Jess had walked on it, but she hadn’t seen it (one of the weird wonders of San Francisco’s fog patterns). So we took an epic quest of hopping on and off random busses to try and head to the northwest corner of the peninsula to see the darned thing. Finally we got there with about forty-five minutes of day left. But that proved to be a blessing, as nothing looks more beautiful than the red rusty bridge glowing with low-stretching orange sunbeams. We ran under the bridge to capture the panoramic beauty of the bridge on fire, stretching over the golden Pacific waters, across to the green cliffs and hills. Near the orb of the sun itself was a fully laden tanker, as a boat with its sails high edged close to the cliffs. I don’t know how else to explain the beauty except through the meager pictures I took.

Alicia and Jess’ time in San Francisco was waning. We did a few more touristy things, like taking a cable car from Union Square to Fisherman’s Wharf in the pouring rain, as a German couple hung out of the car a la Full House’s opening credits. I took a picture for them and only spoke to them in German, one of the perks of living in an international tourist destination. After a stop at In-N-Out Burgers and Ghirardelli Chocolate, we made our way back towards the city center. Fleet Week was going on all week, so we kept running into sailors and Navy Officers everywhere, and Jess and I just had to show our disgust at military excess while sitting in front of the giant Navy warship, complete with tanks, helicopters, and artillery.

One of the hardest days for me was two weeks ago today, when both Alicia and Jess left. Alicia continued on her North American tour towards Washington, D.C. and New York City. Jess boarded a bus north to Portland, Oregon, where she went to stay with friends and seek her fortunes in a more affordable city. Saying goodbye to Jess was incredibly hard because not only had we been spending every moment for the past few weeks together, but she was my only real friend here, my only connection to my family, my friends, and Grand Rapids. After she left, I felt truly alone. But I know she had to leave and that she had to pursue what she thought was right in her life, just like I had to pursue what I thought was right in mine. And so Jess left and I continued my stay at Steph’s apartment, frantically looking for where I would be able to stay next.

But I know and feel that this is going to work out here. Perhaps it’s the random kindness of the strangers I have met. Maybe it’s the wine I have been sipping on talking. Or maybe it’s just my faith in God’s hand in all of this. Either way, while I am worried about not finding a job in time, I also trust that what needs to happen, will happen. I will be a stronger and wiser and more interesting person because of it. This is a journey, an epic story of discovery and trust, and I am taking joy in the fact that I am living. Really living. While I am overcome with fear and uncertainty at points, I also know that the alternatives aren’t any better or easier. So I am living as if there is no alternative, and I am making this work.

Dr. House Plays the Blues and a Chicken McNugget

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Greetings from the sunset land!

The days are beginning to all roll together here, but that is to be expected when one has no routine. The only consistent thing has been drinking massive amounts of coffee while house hunting non-stop. The lack of response I have received is leaving me feeling a bit discouraged and, well, rejected. I expect this from guy I’m interested in, but not from strangers I haven’t even met! Ha, self-deprecation probably isn’t the best idea right now. Anyways, I’m continuing my search and trying to keep my spirits up that something is bound to work out. I’m also keeping my fingers crossed and saying a lot of prayers that things with the HarperOne job might work out.

But that’s all the serious stuff!

This past weekend was an exhaustingly fun one.

Nestled deep within the massive Golden Gate Park (eat your heart out, Central Park!) was the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival. It used to just be the Strictly Bluegrass Festival, but with all things in San Francisco, rules don’t really apply here.

The line up was impressive, and on Friday afternoon Jess and I made the 45 minute walk from our temporary home in the Inner Richmond down to the park, following the masses of people swarming to the woods. The crowds were intimidatingly large (over 150,000 people were expected to attend the festival), and my eyes were so overwhelmed by the wide variety of people, their normal and strange assortments of clothes, and the towering trees over us. But all I could think about was getting to see one of my favorite singers ever: Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin fame. Seeing him sing, dance, and do his own new songs plus some Led Zeppelin remixes (including the dance-inducing crowd favorite Bron-Y-Aur Stomp!).

Friday night saw us turn Irish, as we visited both the Irish 32 Pub and The Plough and Star Pub. Irish 32 was a big, cavernous room covered in Sinn Fein propaganda (translation: I loved it!). Our fellow stool warmers (ew, not a dirty joke!) spoke in a wide variety of Irish accents, and I downed a Harp and a Cottage Pie (like a Shepherd’s Pie but without the shepherd’s minions minced inside). The Plough and Star hosts all things Irish music, so we watched some fiddlers string together some tunes, as people danced some amazing Irish jigs. I was more than slightly jealous at their skills. After my thrilling come back in playing darts against Jess and Kevin, Jess and I plucked up some courage and played pool with two guys. The one that I took interest in was named Adrian, and he’s spent the past few years maintaining trails in national parks around the Bay Area. Needless to say, the guys mopped the floor with us, as my pool skills have been declining greatly over the past year.

Saturday was seeing Mr. Hugh Laurie, in all his British splendor, playing some old time tunes, like St. James Infirmary, at the Bluegrass festival. He was hilarious and quite the capable piano man. Watching House just got more appealing. In between sets and after having some swigs o’ wine and some bread and brie, I sort of passed out in the hot sun underneath the two umbrellas I was clinging to in my hands. I didn’t think it was capable to fall asleep amid 20,000 people, but who am I to doubt my own tiredness? Next up was Canadian superstars Broken Social Scene, but not really knowing their music and having sweltered in the sun for hours beforehand didn’t make it really stand out to me.

Now Sunday, my friends, was an interesting day. Jess, Kevin, and I headed down to the Mission district to go to church at Reality SF, a new church plant. Not really my type of church I feel most drawn to, but it was an interesting experience to worship with three hundred under-30 hipsters. We joined an “eatup” group after to grab some burgers at Super Duper Burgers and talk. I met some cool people, and even this guy who had just graduated from Cornerstone in Grand Rapids. Small world, indeed. But here’s the interesting part: after burgers we were right in the middle of the Castro Street Fair. Now, if you remember from last entry, the Castro district is the predominately gay neighborhood. Let’s just say that they were all about celebrating that at this fair. There were food booths, safe sex booths, and even a booth to sign a petition to free accused WikiLeaks leaker Bradley Manning (naturally, I signed it). In the center of the blocked off road was a cover band belting out tunes dressed up as sailors. But what really caught my eye from faraway was this: a giant chicken McNuggety stuffed thing with a face on it that guys were posing with. I was a little confused, and so I asked Kevin, “Why is there a giant chicken tender?”, to which he replied “You’ll learn when you’re older”. Haha, so yes…well…let me keep this PG-13 here on what it really was upon closer inspection. Oh my naivety is going to be destroyed in this city!

Today we explored the Mission District and encountered an alley filled with murals. It was beautiful! Then we stopped in the Four Barrels coffee shop, which seemed to be the epicenter of all things hipster in SF. If Apple and a bag of coffee had a love child, it would be this coffee shop.

This city is all sorts of diversity, from its almost complete lack of chain stores and restaurants, to the unpredictable weather that changes from neighborhood to neighborhood, to its multiethnic, multi-sexuality population. I wanted a change from the often homogenous world of West Michigan, and well, that’s what I’m getting. I’m keeping my mind open and just appreciating all the newness around me. The world is so much bigger than I could have imagined.

Eye Drop Lockdown in Berkeley and Other Stories from the Bay.

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Another San Francisco round up of various sightings and happenings and experiences. I hope you enjoy your journey into my new world.

The fact that I am living in such a big, international city is still astounding to me, and one that I have not fully comprehended quite yet. That I can venture around this seven mile by seven mile peninsula and go from the high class, rich world of Nob Hill, down to the business world of the Financial District, down to the hispanic and hipster area of the Mission, and back over through Chinatown to my current living situation in the Inner Richmond is quite fascinating. You really can cater your experiences here based on what area of SF you’re in. And this of course ignores all of the neighborhoods and such of the East Bay cities of Berkeley and Oakland! The choices here are endless upon endless. I’ve been trying to figure out what area I want to live in, but really, housing here is so competitive that I’m just going to take what I can get.

Here’s what I’ve been doing lately, as I’ve taken this free time of mine to explore the city as much as possible:

Tuesday:

• I bought my first Clipper card, which I can use for the Muni (busses) and the BART (subway). For $72/month I have unlimited use of these public transportation wonders, which is definitely cheaper than all the gas and oil I was filling my oil-sucking 2001 Chevy Prism up with. I now feel like an official city resident!
• Jess and I took the 33 bus down some winding hills over through the Castro district (considered the LGBT neighborhood of SF) and over into the Mission District. The Mission is the hispanic area of SF and it’s also the hub of all things hipster in SF, so there’s no end to awesome coffee shops, cheap bars, vintage clothes, and overflowing bookstores in this area. Everyone dresses about twenty times cooler than I do, which really isn’t much of a feat.
• First stop in the Mission: Dog Eared Books, where I bought an awesome book called “Broke Ass Stuart’s Guide to Living Cheaply in San Francisco”. It has already proved very helpful, since my ass is very broke indeed.
• Mission Dolores Park: Stunning views of downtown can be seen from the top of the hill in this park that is situated between the Castro and the Mission. Yet there are also many a view of the shirtless, speedo wearing greased up gay men laying in the sun together and eating popsicles. Hmm. Also vendors were going around in the park selling cold beer and, no joke, hash brownies. Welcome to San Francisco stereotypes!
• Bi-Rite Ice Cream: A staple of the Mission, which when I visited in April had lines out the door and around the corner.
• Through the hipster area of the Mission, we ventured up Mission Street through the heart of the hispanic district, where people set up shop on the sidewalks to sell heart attack inducing bacon wrapped hot dogs sizzling on their hot plates or some sort of fruity yogurty concoctions.
• Taking the BART (or as I have started calling it “the Homer”) over to the East Bay, past the crazy inspiration for Star Wars Empire Strikes Back AT-ATs  ship dock unloaders, Jess and I went to Old Oakland to meet up with Jess’ friend, Laura Feldman, who is in the Bay Area until the end of October while her cruise ship she’s working on is docked.
• Enjoying the most delicious sangria ever and a wonderful fried gouda, sauteed onion, and salsa covered snack at a tequila bar in Old Oakland, while periodically going outside to catch up with Ande and Elizabeth on the phone
• Going to this awesome beer lovers bar called The Trappist  with Jess and Laura and sampling some delicious Belgian wheat beer. This is after Laura got her toenail accidentally ripped off by the bartender, who bought her a free meal and beer all night to make up for it. Sitting out under the warm, night sky on the picnic table patio reminded me so much of the Meanwhile, well, minus the giant robot, unicorn, monkey, squirrel mural of course.
• After making our way back to SF, we waited and waited impatiently outside this Irish pub for a bus to come and pick us up downtown. The owner was outside putting up the patio chairs and, with his amazing Irish accent, he looked up bus departure times on his smart phone and told us the fastest route home. The Irish man and I then proceeded to laugh as we made fun of the impatient, entitled, drunken businessmen sitting at his bar.

Wednesday:

• Lunch with Jess and Steph at Mama Buzz Cafe in Oakland, per Kelley’s suggestion of one of her favorite Oakland places. I got something called the Bunny Bagel…hopefully because it had marinated carrots and not any bunny bits.
• Sitting under a huge stone gazebo by Lake Merritt in Oakland, we watched a couple spin, twirl, and whip their legs around in some awesome ballroom dancing moves.
• From Oakland and up to Berkeley by the BART, Jess and I were overwhelmed by all the smart people of Berkeley scurrying to and fro from class, to stores, and to their dorms. Berkeley is the university, just as Ann Arbor is U of M.
• How to describe Berkeley aside from the university? Well, you have your crusties with their dogs, sitting on the sidewalks, and then there’s the artists creating and selling outside of stores, or the buskers strumming away on their guitars, or the hippie types hanging out in the People’s Park. It’s basically just Eastown times about…let’s say 150%. Let me just put it this way: Jess was in desperate need of some eye drops because her eyes have been really dry, so I suggested going into the Walgreens right on Telegraph Ave. And there we see a stereotyping epitomization of Berkeley: the rows of eye drops are all locked behind plastic windows due to the high level of theft of this hot commodity! So we had to call one of the attendants to unlock it, and she had to walk it to the counter for us to purchase. Completely unreal!
• Post-university wanderings and due to exhaustion from climbing so many stairs and hills, I further mastered my control of public transportation and got us back home.

And that, my friends and family, is yet another adventure time in this new land of mine.

Until next story time.

San Francisco Wanderings.

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Rather than long winded ramblings, which I am very good at, let me just list out some of the awesome things this city has offered up since my arrival here late Saturday night:

Saturday:

• Pulling over on Treasure Island before continuing on the Bay Bridge to see the night skyline of San Francisco, with brightly lit ferry boats crossing under the distant Golden Gate Bridge, the air filled with the rich scent of the salty sea.
• Driving by Pixar Studios and seeing the larger-than-life lamp from the opening credits
• Stopping into random Irish pubs in the Inner Richmond district to find some beer and chips only to find that all of their kitchens were closed already. A bartender, upon seeing my Smitten with the Mitten Michigan t-shirt, asked if I was from Michigan, because she and the other bartender were both from Ann Arbor. “Yep, I just moved here tonight after traveling by train for three days!” She then proceeding to ask me what kind of shot I would like (Kamikaze please!), and so Jess, myself, and the bartender welcomed in our first night in San Francisco.
• Coming into our new home away from home (Jess’ friend Kevin) and seeing all of his Star Wars memorabilia, as he has worked for both Dreamworks and Lucasfilm, and has met George Lucas. Kevin, upon learning of my own geekdom, offered to take me to Lucasfilm when he is next invited to a screening. There I can not only see the Holy Grail from Indiana Jones  but also Luke Skywalker’s lightsaber! Ah!

Sunday:

• Seeing Lucasfilm, the Yoda fountain, and Darth Vader and Boba Fett costumes!
• Hearing a street band play outside of City Lights Bookstore
• Walking through Chinatown and seeing old Chinese men playing their strange single-stringed instruments on the sidewalks
• Stumbling upon the Chinatown Music Festival to see a bunch of Chinese 5 and 6 year olds singing a Spanish counting song, followed up by a song about a monkey, complete with hand motions and kazoo playing. The last song of their performance? Singing in the Rain, of course! Nothing screams China like Gene Kelly.
• Eating delicious pizza in North Beach aka Little Italy, and then asking the waitress about good places to go dancing. She wrote us out an entire list of places to check out, when to go, if they have covers, and where all the hot guys are. She was the personification of a San Franciscan: she came specifically to SF from out of state, loved the city and wanted to share it with others, and was very friendly.
• Walking across the Golden Gate Bridge but not actually seeing it or the water below or the cables above. Hello fog!

Monday:

• Having some random guy on the street tell Jess and I after we were finally able to cross the street: “You two pretty ladies! I’ve never seen cars stop and wait for people to cross the street like that.”
• Hearing Russian, German, Chinese, and French all in one day
• Being on a bus filled with 20-something professionals and old Chinese ladies jabbering away
• Almost sliding right off my bus seat and into the aisle as we descended one of SF’s many steep hills
• Having a *hopefully* successful second interview at HarperOne
• Enjoying a happy hour beer and burger surrounded by the skyscrapers of San Francisco

Departure.

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Alright, round two here, as my first attempt at this got completely deleted after I had written the whole thing. *obscene gesture at my computer*

After three days of travel by car, train, bus, and train with my life’s belongings thrown over my shoulder or strapped on myself or in my hands, I have finally arrived in my western land: California.

I would make this epic trip over again in a second; the experience was a fantastic way to encounter the country and see the lands between my old home and my new home.

The journey out was an amazing array of all America had to offer. The city of departure was Chicago, that windy city of rust and elevated trains, and Jess and I went underground to Union Station’s Amtrak station. From there we rode through the cornfields of Illinois, across the Mississippi River into Iowa, and through the sunsetting world of Missouri. When we awoke with the sun rising, after a horrid night’s sleep in our chairs, we were in the dusty brown, shrubby plains of Colorado, unaware that we had passed through Kansas in the night.

I thought with 54 hours of travel, I would be bored out of my mind, so I stuffed my bags full of books, magazines, cards, Scrabble, a journal, and movies. But most of my time was spent staring out the window at the rushing scenery. The visual stimulus of actually seeing America, parts of this broad country that I have only seen in pictures, was enough to hold my attention for hours on end. Normally trains go through the bad parts of cities, but this was not always the case with our Southwest Chief. Often it was just the iron road cutting through wide open plains and pastures, with not a sign of life around. Or we would cut through the rocky mountains of New Mexico or wind our way through a little green oasis of swerving river country, with the locals knee deep in the water, fishing poles at the ready.

Most of our time was spent sitting in the lounge car, with the tables and booths filled with the people of the train playing games, watching movies, and making friends. On any train, you’ll meet some interesting people, but this one woman in particular was the most weirdly interesting person Jess and I have ever overheard. Everything about this 36 year old made you want to look but not look at the same time. With her silver glittery eye shadow, high heels, jeggings, and tight shirt over her bulging belly, she demanded drink orders and food from her tablemate, a greasy haired, balding, red mustachioed man. He listened to her ramblings in her thick Massachusetts accent with rapt attention. Just read the notes that Jess and I furiously scribbled down while suppressing laughter and gasps of pity and horror:

I worked in a strip club to be a millionaire. 50 Cent and Marilyn Monroe are my heroes.

I’m writing a movie. All I need is to drink and be happy and to be doing karaoke.

There are day time people and night time people. I was born at 11pm, and darkness is all around me.

I just wanna go get my hair straightened.

I’m writing anonymous letters to President Obama, because I don’t like that word on TV. I’m a prude. That’s why I’m going to Vegas, to meet the big boys.

If I was married I’d give it to my man 24/7. I’ve called chat lines and men aren’t satisfied. I was 32 and in a Girls Gone Wild video. I’m a wild girl. I like to have fun. I’m happy. “I would never take a wild woman and try to tame her,” said the greasy haired man.

On not sleeping well: It’s like a Vietnam War for me, that’s why vets are so messed up.

I was in the National Guard, and I was with a guy from Texas, half Mexican. I met him in Wooster. I hung out with him on New Year’s Eve, and I ate a lot. So he asked me if I was pregnant, and it turned out I was. My life is a movie! It’s not just about lovers. I got pregnant in his parents’ front yard. I also got pregnant from a Chippendale dancer.

I’m writing a movie. I’m done. I want protection in LA. I’ve seen dead bodies. My doctor says don’t dwell on the past. I need a notebook to write down my songs and experience.

I want highlights, my hair straightened, a banging outfit, and bigger heels. I’m going to get a camera, and I want you to take pictures of me. Just wild and crazy.

The guy starts talking about how he found a fossil and saw a UFO, believes in Sasquatch and Loch Ness. She thinks she’s from Atlantis or somewhere where talented people come from.

I’m just looking for a husband in Vegas. I just want to party with rock stars.

Yes, I’m a poet and I know it.

I think 90% of the world is bipolar. I’m not bipolar. I’m a Leo.

Once we left LA and the crazies behind, Jess and I took the bus up up up into the San Bernardino golden mountains. From there we rode through the Fruit Basket of California through vineyards and orchards and the gray, dry soil where such things thrive. Then it was up and over the Sierra Nevadas and down down down to the city by the Bay, as the sun set over the water.

I was in my new home with a giant smile on my face.