I am trying to say that I love San Francisco. But it comes out all wrong. Waxing poetic about the smell of fog or a surprise view as you round a corner. Even if that view stops you in your tracks. Even if it is guide book worthy. It's hard to find the words to walk the line between well written and trite. Nailed it and over done. So how is this: it makes me happy.
I nannied there for two summers when I was in college. It was the first place I traveled outside the Midwest. It was the furthest I'd ever been from home. It was nothing like what I knew with its pan handlers, and water shortages and tourists. I had never lived anywhere people visited. But here were throngs of people in sun visors making me wait in line.
My memories from those summers are brightly colored. And the soundtrack is kid laughter. And there are moments I recall so clearly that if I shut my eyes I'm in them again. Heart pounding. Giggle stifling. Sun burnt. No summer since has ever come close.
When we started the decent into SFO, the runways built out into the water, I remembered that I never wanted to leave. And here I was coming back for the first time since. It had been over 10 years. I had forgotten here. How I cried the day I had to leave. How I plotted on ways to afford California out-of-state tuition. How I promised I'd come back. I would figure it out. I would.
I didn't.
I feel almost guilty.
These five days back. As a bona fide grown-up. In a fancy hotel. Fuck. I knew before I got off the plane that come Monday I wasn't going to want to leave. Some places just feel more like home than other places.
In the decade that's past the girls I nannied with are no longer there. They moved back home. Or moved somewhere new. Dispersed as some kind of child care super team across the country to bring time outs and finger painting to those who need it most. I e-mailed Jennie. The cornerstone for my California summers. One of my longest and best friends. I wished for a catch-up session. Over guacamole and flan. At that one place we use to go to. With the windows right out to the water. Where you could toss tortilla chips out to feed the ducks.
But she's in Alabama now. And I'm mostly in Seattle.
So instead I wandered the city. Walked for hours at a time. Pretending I had an apartment to go to. Or a barista who knew what I wanted to drink. I did have strangers who shared smiles with me. I did have spending money. I did have sore feet. But what I wanted was a key to a 1BR on Nob Hill. Instead a I had a Westin key card with gold fish on it. It's still in my bag.
With July comes a chance to do it again. 4 days this time. A different Westin. But the same perfectly imperfect city. The same sense of home and where the hell have you been and how can I never leave. Penciled out on cocktail napkins this time instead of college rule. Wondering if some Silicon Valley upstart could see the Business Developer in me. Because I can see me there. Wearing high heels on cobblestone. Always having a sweater. Feeling like I've arrived.
Showing posts with label beautiful. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beautiful. Show all posts
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
if you wind up in Fargo, you went the wrong way
Their house is in the middle of nowhere. The directions to find it included things like silos and tar roads.
Take the second tar road on your right.
I’d turn down road after road to see the dots of gray gravel poking up above the snow or the streaky black of a plowed county highway. But changing direction from North to West didn’t do much for the scenery other than reposition the sun. Flat and endless and white.
I got lost. It took me four hours instead of two and about a dozen phone calls to Josh with my hopeful coordinates. Apparently there are two “county road 9”s. Since you go through two counties. Each having at least nine roads to call their own. Wound up in Rockville or Paynesville or something like that. When I finally stepped out of the car and said hello to their dog Josh asked me if I had to pull over to cry.
“No.” I laughed. “But I did stop to pee in Belgrade.“
Inside there was hundred year old wallpaper and original woodwork and a one year old baby I was meeting for the very first time. Christa made lunch of dates and dark chocolate, tea, cheese and whole wheat crackers. It was the best everything I’d ever tasted, having been hungry for 3 hours and out of water for two.
Christa is forever linked to my old coffee shop. She had front row seats for the dramatic eight month decline of the little shop on the busy corner in South Minneapolis. She was the only one who knew all the players. Knew the day to day. Held my hand and sat next to me while I tried to figure out how to stay afloat for another month. She taught me how to smoke and got me drunk on days when getting drunk was the only sane thing to do. She helped repaint my house and move all the furniture so it felt like mine again. She’s the brightest colored character in a grayish blue time.
She moved right after I moved. Moved to the country to put her Master’s Degree to work, saving the world one migrant family at a time, bringing her big city smarts back to the barely incorporated township she grew up in. They don’t have internet access and her cell phone reception is sketchy. We talked sporadically when she was in the city or staying late at work. But like all great friendships, the pause button works flawlessly. No time actually passes, but your hair grows and you can have babies. It’s some kind of perfect magic.
The catching up was easy and laughs over things we never collectively thought would reach the realm of funny were so healing and life affirming. If I can say that without sounding like a wannabe guru. If even saying that can capture all the wow.
The little baby who took to me gleefully fast won my heart as quickly. She has messy hair and soft cheeks and shares her Cheerio’s with near strangers. Seeing Christa as mom and hearing her talk about it so smartly. So thoughtfully. That little girl is one of the luckiest babies in the world.
Sparked from the picture perfect afternoon while driving home with crystal clear directions and a painstakingly crafted map it hit me for real this time. A gratitude for the eight months of bluish gray and how it’s come to show light on the best parts of who I am. I’ve flirted with this idea. Hoped for it. Tried it on. But it never stuck. Too early. Too insincere. I wanted to let go of the ick and fill up on the good but that takes time and patience. It happens under the radar maybe. While you are unaware. Pops it to the surface as a bona fide revelation while driving back to Minneapolis at 4pm on a chilly Saturday afternoon. I almost pulled over. I almost picked up the phone to call everyone I know with the news. But instead, I just drove.
And talked to myself.
And let it wash over me again and again like a really great hug.
Take the second tar road on your right.
I’d turn down road after road to see the dots of gray gravel poking up above the snow or the streaky black of a plowed county highway. But changing direction from North to West didn’t do much for the scenery other than reposition the sun. Flat and endless and white.
I got lost. It took me four hours instead of two and about a dozen phone calls to Josh with my hopeful coordinates. Apparently there are two “county road 9”s. Since you go through two counties. Each having at least nine roads to call their own. Wound up in Rockville or Paynesville or something like that. When I finally stepped out of the car and said hello to their dog Josh asked me if I had to pull over to cry.
“No.” I laughed. “But I did stop to pee in Belgrade.“
Inside there was hundred year old wallpaper and original woodwork and a one year old baby I was meeting for the very first time. Christa made lunch of dates and dark chocolate, tea, cheese and whole wheat crackers. It was the best everything I’d ever tasted, having been hungry for 3 hours and out of water for two.
Christa is forever linked to my old coffee shop. She had front row seats for the dramatic eight month decline of the little shop on the busy corner in South Minneapolis. She was the only one who knew all the players. Knew the day to day. Held my hand and sat next to me while I tried to figure out how to stay afloat for another month. She taught me how to smoke and got me drunk on days when getting drunk was the only sane thing to do. She helped repaint my house and move all the furniture so it felt like mine again. She’s the brightest colored character in a grayish blue time.
She moved right after I moved. Moved to the country to put her Master’s Degree to work, saving the world one migrant family at a time, bringing her big city smarts back to the barely incorporated township she grew up in. They don’t have internet access and her cell phone reception is sketchy. We talked sporadically when she was in the city or staying late at work. But like all great friendships, the pause button works flawlessly. No time actually passes, but your hair grows and you can have babies. It’s some kind of perfect magic.
The catching up was easy and laughs over things we never collectively thought would reach the realm of funny were so healing and life affirming. If I can say that without sounding like a wannabe guru. If even saying that can capture all the wow.
The little baby who took to me gleefully fast won my heart as quickly. She has messy hair and soft cheeks and shares her Cheerio’s with near strangers. Seeing Christa as mom and hearing her talk about it so smartly. So thoughtfully. That little girl is one of the luckiest babies in the world.
Sparked from the picture perfect afternoon while driving home with crystal clear directions and a painstakingly crafted map it hit me for real this time. A gratitude for the eight months of bluish gray and how it’s come to show light on the best parts of who I am. I’ve flirted with this idea. Hoped for it. Tried it on. But it never stuck. Too early. Too insincere. I wanted to let go of the ick and fill up on the good but that takes time and patience. It happens under the radar maybe. While you are unaware. Pops it to the surface as a bona fide revelation while driving back to Minneapolis at 4pm on a chilly Saturday afternoon. I almost pulled over. I almost picked up the phone to call everyone I know with the news. But instead, I just drove.
And talked to myself.
And let it wash over me again and again like a really great hug.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
just like that
It was fall. 2004. In Minneapolis. I owned a coffee shop there. And that’s where I was. We were on a busy corner - 42nd and Cedar. Cedar is an exit from Hwy 62 and a main route to get to downtown or the University of Minnesota. Even in the middle of the night Cedar was still busy. But this was in the afternoon, about 4.
The shop would empty out about then. The neighborhood 9 to 5ers had come and gone with their afternoon pick-me-ups. The stay-at-home moms were making grocery lists or waking toddlers up from their afternoon naps. And in fall, in the Midwest, 4pm is sunset. The first hint of gray or orange light hits the pavement and by 6pm, it looks like 2am. Streetlights on and inky skies.
It was sometimes nice and sometimes uncomfortable to be alone in the store then. Leaning on the counter and watching the start of the evening commute I was just as likely to feel lucky as lonely. The important things in my life had been caught up in a windstorm that teased me with false endings and easy solutions. Sometimes it felt like 100 mile an hour winds and sometimes it felt eerily calm with the glowing green sky us Midwest kids know as signaling trouble.
I think I felt a little wistful. I remember I had my head on my hand and I was looking out the windows onto Cedar Avenue. If I had to venture a guess, I would go with lonely over lucky. I wasn’t looking forward to summer being over and the bare trees and leaf clogged sewers were impossible to ignore. It wasn’t that I loved that summer. It was just I didn’t want this tornado to stretch into another season. I didn’t want time to pass. My biggest wish was for a pause button just so I could take a breath. Or a thousand breaths. But there isn’t a pause button. No matter how hard you look.
Out the window there were flashing red lights. Police cars. No sirens, just lights. They had sped up to the intersection. Each driving on the wrong side of the road to beat the traffic to the stop light. One from the north, one from the south. They each hit the breaks and spun to block all traffic on Cedar from entering the intersection.
I lifted my head from my hand and watched. The intersection was quiet. No cars on 42nd. The police officers, the commuters, me. We just waited. For something. To happen.
A male deer, big, antlers, lost. Came running down 42nd. Fast and swift and graceful. And unharmed. It galloped through the quiet intersection and I knew that the busy intersection on Chicago and the ones on Portland and Park were all quiet too with silent police cars and flashing red lights. His path anticipated. He passage guaranteed. The fallen leaves being kicked up in his wake.
The shop would empty out about then. The neighborhood 9 to 5ers had come and gone with their afternoon pick-me-ups. The stay-at-home moms were making grocery lists or waking toddlers up from their afternoon naps. And in fall, in the Midwest, 4pm is sunset. The first hint of gray or orange light hits the pavement and by 6pm, it looks like 2am. Streetlights on and inky skies.
It was sometimes nice and sometimes uncomfortable to be alone in the store then. Leaning on the counter and watching the start of the evening commute I was just as likely to feel lucky as lonely. The important things in my life had been caught up in a windstorm that teased me with false endings and easy solutions. Sometimes it felt like 100 mile an hour winds and sometimes it felt eerily calm with the glowing green sky us Midwest kids know as signaling trouble.
I think I felt a little wistful. I remember I had my head on my hand and I was looking out the windows onto Cedar Avenue. If I had to venture a guess, I would go with lonely over lucky. I wasn’t looking forward to summer being over and the bare trees and leaf clogged sewers were impossible to ignore. It wasn’t that I loved that summer. It was just I didn’t want this tornado to stretch into another season. I didn’t want time to pass. My biggest wish was for a pause button just so I could take a breath. Or a thousand breaths. But there isn’t a pause button. No matter how hard you look.
Out the window there were flashing red lights. Police cars. No sirens, just lights. They had sped up to the intersection. Each driving on the wrong side of the road to beat the traffic to the stop light. One from the north, one from the south. They each hit the breaks and spun to block all traffic on Cedar from entering the intersection.
I lifted my head from my hand and watched. The intersection was quiet. No cars on 42nd. The police officers, the commuters, me. We just waited. For something. To happen.
A male deer, big, antlers, lost. Came running down 42nd. Fast and swift and graceful. And unharmed. It galloped through the quiet intersection and I knew that the busy intersection on Chicago and the ones on Portland and Park were all quiet too with silent police cars and flashing red lights. His path anticipated. He passage guaranteed. The fallen leaves being kicked up in his wake.
Monday, May 28, 2007
next year, i will wear a sparkly dress
It was my friend Buster’s birthday party last night. I admire his dedication to having the party on his actual birthday. Even if it’s a Sunday. Like last night. A Sunday night birthday party is usually just dinner somewhere, a few presents and if you’re at a Mexican restaurant, some complimentary flan. But Buster goes all out. It’s really commendable.
Buster is the only other person I’ve ever met who names their birthday years. I name my birthday years. This is year three of me naming my birthday year. I look at the name as more of a theme, he refers to it as his “birthday wish” and believes that birthday wishes have special powers. This sounds silly when I type it but if you’re ever in a conversation with him about birthday wishes and he tells you this theory, you just believe it. He has conviction.
I’ve only known Buster for two birthdays. Below is a chart:
Buster’s Birthday Wishes / Heather’s Birthday Year Themes
2005 : unknown / Year of Debauchery
2006 : Higher Highs, Lower Lows / Year of Conscious Choices
2007: Double Down / Year of Actualization
As you can see, his are more abstract. Mine are like fortune cookies. We both agree however - your wish/theme will make itself known. In other words, if you are considering naming your birthday year - be careful. It comes true. If you remember nothing else from this story, remember that. I’d hate for you to have an accidentally crappy year. You don’t deserve a crappy year. You deserve a year filled with as much good stuff and as many valuable lessons as 365 days can fit in. To that end, I don't recommend having a Year of Debauchery.
At the party, there was a survey to fill out. Buster is making a friendbook. This is like a yearbook but made of friends instead. See, he really does go all out. Even on a Sunday. I thought I would share some of it with you. And that you would fill it out. Everyone likes surveys. It’s a chance to get to know yourself better. It’s a chance to feel like you are getting interviewed for a magazine.
Here are my favorite questions (and answers):
What’s your favorite food? (doughnuts)
What’s your spirit animal? (crow)
Would you rather bet everything on red or black? (red)
Squid are: beautiful, tasty or weird. (beautiful)
When is the last time you cried? (today)
Do you believe that black swans exist? (yes)
What are you striving for? (happiness)
Likely or unlikely that you’ll get what you’re striving for? (likely!)
Are you a good example of the kind of person you think people should be? (sometimes)
What’s something awesome? (resilience)
What’s something beautiful? (dewy grass)
You are beautiful and awesome. (So are you.)
That last one isn’t really a question. It’s a statement. It’s a statement that I liked reading. Just like when someone with a Sharpie writes “you are beautiful” across the bottom of the mirror in the ladies' room. The management probably isn’t very happy about having a written on mirror, but I love reading it anyway. I am beautiful. And so is the next girl who washes her hands. Beautiful. Look at us all. So different. So wounded. So healed. So optimistic. So cautious. So wonderful.
And you.
You are beautiful and awesome, too.
Buster is the only other person I’ve ever met who names their birthday years. I name my birthday years. This is year three of me naming my birthday year. I look at the name as more of a theme, he refers to it as his “birthday wish” and believes that birthday wishes have special powers. This sounds silly when I type it but if you’re ever in a conversation with him about birthday wishes and he tells you this theory, you just believe it. He has conviction.
I’ve only known Buster for two birthdays. Below is a chart:
Buster’s Birthday Wishes / Heather’s Birthday Year Themes
2005 : unknown / Year of Debauchery
2006 : Higher Highs, Lower Lows / Year of Conscious Choices
2007: Double Down / Year of Actualization
As you can see, his are more abstract. Mine are like fortune cookies. We both agree however - your wish/theme will make itself known. In other words, if you are considering naming your birthday year - be careful. It comes true. If you remember nothing else from this story, remember that. I’d hate for you to have an accidentally crappy year. You don’t deserve a crappy year. You deserve a year filled with as much good stuff and as many valuable lessons as 365 days can fit in. To that end, I don't recommend having a Year of Debauchery.
At the party, there was a survey to fill out. Buster is making a friendbook. This is like a yearbook but made of friends instead. See, he really does go all out. Even on a Sunday. I thought I would share some of it with you. And that you would fill it out. Everyone likes surveys. It’s a chance to get to know yourself better. It’s a chance to feel like you are getting interviewed for a magazine.
Here are my favorite questions (and answers):
What’s your favorite food? (doughnuts)
What’s your spirit animal? (crow)
Would you rather bet everything on red or black? (red)
Squid are: beautiful, tasty or weird. (beautiful)
When is the last time you cried? (today)
Do you believe that black swans exist? (yes)
What are you striving for? (happiness)
Likely or unlikely that you’ll get what you’re striving for? (likely!)
Are you a good example of the kind of person you think people should be? (sometimes)
What’s something awesome? (resilience)
What’s something beautiful? (dewy grass)
You are beautiful and awesome. (So are you.)
That last one isn’t really a question. It’s a statement. It’s a statement that I liked reading. Just like when someone with a Sharpie writes “you are beautiful” across the bottom of the mirror in the ladies' room. The management probably isn’t very happy about having a written on mirror, but I love reading it anyway. I am beautiful. And so is the next girl who washes her hands. Beautiful. Look at us all. So different. So wounded. So healed. So optimistic. So cautious. So wonderful.
And you.
You are beautiful and awesome, too.
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