you are here

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.

like the whole solar system stops and holds its breath with you

I’m reading No One Belongs Here More Than You. By Miranda July. She doesn’t have it capitalized on her book. On her book it’s written as “No one belongs here more than you.” I guess by here she means Earth. I want it to mean Alive but that doesn’t make sense in the context of the sentence. Alive isn’t a place you can be. But Earth is. So she must mean that.

I’m reading it slowly. At first I was reading it slowly to make it last. Now I’m reading it slowly because parts of it make me so incredibly sad that I have to space it out. The parts that make me incredibly sad aren’t predictable. Or evenly spaced. I need days between stories to recover. Sometimes up to one week.

Her and I have hair color in common.

No one belongs here more than you comes in two color choices. One is yellow and the other is bright pink. But those are just the dust jackets. The inside book is yellow regardless of which color dust jacket you choose. This fact, and this fact alone, made me pick the yellow cover. I wanted my copy to look the same naked or clothed. I thought it would be less confusing for me then. I would always just know that it was yellow. Plus, I like yellow but can’t wear it. It makes me look sickly. So when I can pick something to be yellow that I don’t have to wear, I usually jump at the chance. I guess that means two facts, and two facts alone, make me pick the yellow cover.

We may also both think of ourselves as sensitive.

Somewhere in the first few pages, she wonders if all she’s ever wanted to say to someone or be told is this: It’s not your fault. That hearing that. Or saying it. Would make it all ok. Like the line in a great movie that you think of days later and still get the chills. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

I wondered what mine was. All I’ve ever wanted to say? All I’ve ever wanted to hear? I remembered this one time. I was still in Minneapolis and he lived in San Francisco. Beautiful boy. Dark haired, blue eyed. Andrew Hendrickson. The One Who Got Away. It was morning, hadn’t slept. We had talked for 7 or 8 hours back when long distance was twenty cents a minute. I was in my hallway. In a t-shirt and underwear. Receiver to my ear.

“These things never work out.” he told me.

“I know.”

“I can’t move there. You can’t move here.”

“Yeah.”

“But.”

I said “But.” back.

“One of us is going to wind up getting hurt.”

“Probably me.” I said.

“Probably me.” He said.

We got quiet.

And then he asked, “Do you want to try anyway?”

And then I said “Yes.”

My It’s-not-your-fault is any question phrased like this: do you want to maybe try and fall in love when the whole world is out to eat us up? If I ask it, I want to hear Yes. If I’m asked it, I want to say Yes. I don’t know if it’s the question I crave or the answer. It’s probably the pause in the middle. The second where everything good and everything bad is possible. The second where it’s just breath holding and beating hearts. A million reasons to say no. But one person of a reason to say Yes. Good. Fucking. God. I love that. Love it. Makes me want to stand up and cheer.

Makes me believe in stuff.

And then after figuring that out. I wondered what it was for you. The thing you most want to say. The feeling you most want to feel. What is it? I’d really like to know.