San Francisco Bound

Bernal Heights Neighborhood Center - A Holiday Party

2010-12-12T09:27:00.011-05:00

Holiday party welcome announcements

“You know, I’m a vegetarian,” says Sumi, the petite woman standing to my right.

“Oh. That’s funny. Me, too ... well, sort of ...” As I glance over my shoulder in an attempt to catch her eye, I fight the urge to raise my eyebrows.

Oh, the irony. The two ... well, one-and-a-half vegetarians are almost elbow deep in turkey carcass, wading through the coagulating fat juice, searching for bits of choice meat that may have fallen into the marshland of turkey skin, flesh, and bone. With the noon start time of the Bernal Heights Neighborhood Center senior holiday party barely under an hour away, the turkey carving crew of two was way ahead of schedule.

Sumi had surprised me with her revelation. I thought for sure she carved fowl on a regular basis, so even were her cuts, so efficient were her knife strokes. In fact, I had curbed my normal get-to-know-you conversational banter for the past half hour (there were numerous turkeys) so as to keep up and keep focused; as a violinist, an accidentally sliced finger would prove far more than incovenient.

As we sifted through the fat dregs with our gloved hands, our knives set aside for the moment, she began to question me. How did I find out about the Neighborhood Center? Why did I decide to volunteer? I couldn’t help but loosen up and breathe a little more easily. Yes, my decision to keep quiet while working had been for concentration, but it was also a trained reflexive response to older Asian women with penetrating eyes and seemingly stoic lips. She was not quite old enough to be my mother, but the shimmering strands of gray in her neatly bobbed and otherwise black hair--not a split end in sight--conveyed an air of maturity and unflappable self assurance. She elicited my respect and a little fear. I had felt that I could not openly address her with a cheery smile and a list of questions, as is my usual way. I would wait for Sumi to address me. So, when she did, and with such an unortho-Asian-dox statement--vegetarianism for a woman of her generation is not common--I, albeit relieved from the weighted silence, felt thrown for a loop. But I answered her questions simply and quickly, as I generally do with my parents' friends on first introduction. I told her that I am relatively new to California. That I work down the street at Bernal Yoga and occasionally pass the Neighborhood Center. That I always have wanted to work with seniors, and so a few weeks ago I strolled into the building, met Roland, the senior program coordinator, and discussed creating a music appreciation class for the senior community due to start in January 2011.

Pie for dessert

Sumi tells me that she is Japanese, but originally from Hawaii. That she has worked at the Bernal Heights Neighborhood Center for seventeen years. And that when she first started, one didn’t dare walk down the main street, Cortland Avenue, at night out of concern for safety. I find this hard to imagine. Today Cortland Avenue is a hotbed for families with children and dogs. Kitchy meets hip in this hilly enclave, probably a result of the widely spread socio-economic range of the Bernal community.

Sparsely populated and mainly pastureland at the turn of the 20th century, Bernal Hill saw an influx of workers following the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. The workers, who during the day helped rebuild downtown, in the evenings went home to their families on the hill. And in recent years, young urban professionals are starting to buy property and raise their families here, creating the need for a premium grocery store, nice restaurants and cafes, cute retail clothes shops ... and the yoga studio where I teach. During my off hours, I run across the street to the newly renovated public library branch, where the diverse demographic makeup of the community is quite nicely represented among the stacks or seated at the reading carrels.

In fact, as I deliberately open my senses to survey the seniors, volunteers, and staff gathered in the kitchen and adjoining cafeteria area, I hear Spanish in multiple accents, amusedly watch my new gay volunteer friend, Don, flirt with the old ladies (Don had previously introduced me to one of the visually impaired seniors as “the girl who was just released from prison”), and notice couples that could have easily passed as my grandparents.

My reverie is broken by a beautiful alto voice singing “Oh When the Saints.” It’s Sumi, my carving partner, the Director of Asset Management at Bernal Heights Neighborhood Center.

The entertainment has arrived--two guitar players and a percussionist--and the seniors are starting to sing Christmas carols. The two huge aluminum trays of dark and white turkey meat are warming up in the oven. It’s Friday, and I’m due at the yoga studio at noon, so I start to pack my things up, carefully removing my lawfully required hairnet and plastic gloves.

The morning has been full of surprises ... of things seemingly out of place, but not really. Place is relative, defined by its constantly changing content and context. And as I step out into the noon sun, I realize it is me that is still getting used to my current one.

Listening to the music

To my family and friends in my Maryland, DC, and NY places ... I'm coming back to visit! Let me know if you'll be around during the holidays ... 'til soon!

Birthday Sushi

2010-11-19T17:23:00.011-05:00

This past Tuesday I broke two major rules in Ann’s unpublished Guide to Economical Eating: 1) Never grocery shop on an empty stomach, and 2) Never buy produce at a supermarket, especially when corner bodegas and local farmers’ markets offer the same selection--and often better quality--at a fraction of the cost.

I figured it being my birthday, I could afford to indulge and stray outside my normal spending boundaries. So when the intense craving for a juicy piece of fruit hit me as I cut across the local Safeway parking lot on my way home, I consciously ignored the inner voice of reason encouraging my legs to stay the course and instead gave in to the rumblings of my tummy. Minutes later as I watched the supermarket cashier place a perfectly round organic Honeycrisp apple on the scanner, I felt a tinge of regret. Maybe I should have kept walking, maybe this was a bad idea, maybe ....

The monochromatic cash register monitor flashed “$4.24”. For one apple??? I paused and considered telling the young man I had made a mistake, that I didn’t want it after all. And then I remembered what day it was. With a carefree smile I reached into my wallet and took out my credit card ...

Some girls splurge on clothes and shoes for their birthday. I choose to charge fruit on my AMEX.

And so with caution blatantly thrown to the wind, the birthday dining began. Between lip smacking bites of my outrageously priced organic Honeycrisp, Jenny and I finalized the evening agenda. Kiji, a Michelin reviewed sushi restaurant a few blocks from our apartment, had been on Jenny’s radar, and even though my heart remains still faithful to Sushi Yasuda in New York City, I was eager to make my first foray into the San Francisco sushi scene. We were seated very quickly after our 8 pm arrival, but took note of the ensuing storm of customers--parties of three, four, five, and larger arriving about ten minutes after us. We had come at the perfect time, it seemed. The birthday gods were smiling down on me.

The restaurant itself was cozy, partitioned into three small dining sections, each room leading farther back into the building and successively narrower, sparser in decor. Jenny and I scored the best seats in the house, a corner table by the front window, in plain sight of the bar and the rest of the diners. I worried, though, that the clashing sounds of neighbors’ conversations and the rather loud, upbeat, jazz-inspired music would distract me from my dinner. In general, I prefer restaurants on the quieter side. Food is serious business; the quiet helps me focus.

A friendly server presented a heavy black iron pot of green tea; the accompanying small tea cups set the tone for the meal. Compelled to take dainty sips, else I’d be pouring tea after every other swig, I began to settle into the space, taking my time, enjoying catchup-chat with Jenny ... and savoring the tea.

Miso soup. Lightly fermented, but with enough zing to get the gastric juices flowing. We drank it straight from the bowl, too engrossed in our conversation and too lazy to tell the server we didn’t have spoons.

Oshitashi. Blanched spinach in ponzu sauce, topped with bonito flakes. After the warm tea and soup, the cool citrus flavored spinach calmed the palette. Jenny and I stopped talking, our heads nodding in sympathetic agreement at the perfectly prepared spinach--firm enough to warrant a chew, yet silky smooth in texture.

Hamachi carpaccio. Thinly sliced yellowtail, with spice, truffle oil, sea salt and jalapeno. This was Jenny’s favorite dish, definitely one of the highlights of the meal. The combination of cool fish and spicy jalapeño, their opposing qualities married together by the salty oil was delightful, a palette conundrum for my brain. I had to laugh as the contrasting flavors took turns registering, flashing hot then cool then salty then all at once, as I swallowed each bite. Definitely a tease, I couldn’t resist going back for more.

Jenn roll. Cucumber, avocado, and tobiko roll topped with salmon and lemon. This was an elegant example of traditional meets nouveau. The paper thin slices of lemon sealed onto the outer layer of salmon added a high note to this standard roll combination. Cucumber and avocado suddenly became exciting, their lemon infused flavors holding my attention for much longer than usual. I was impressed by the simplicity and effectiveness of this roll.

Soazik. Uni, ankimo, quail egg nigiri. The wild-card order of the evening. If the Jenn roll were a Mozart aria, exquisitely crafted and ease-fully light, then the Soazik would be a Wagnerian lied, deeply profound, deliberate, mystical. (A bit too dramatic for my taste--no pun intended.) Blending ephemeral elements of sea and sky, the fish eggs and bird eggs provided the liquid smoothness, the salt, the musk. This starkly contrasted with the more earthbound chewy monkfish liver, its flavor sightly metallic. While I probably won’t order this dish again, its complex flavors and poetic composition will be remembered and retold in the unpublished annals of Ann’s Wow Meal Moments.

We were done. Anything else would have been anticlimactic. Plus we had another stop to make before the end of the night.

Kiji’s prices were very reasonable, especially for such thoughtful and precise presentation. What also struck me was the slower pacing of the meal. Each course was presented at a point in time where any later would have given cause to suspect disorganization in the kitchen. But as a result, I remember an expansiveness, a timeless element to my conversation with Jenny. We chatted about our past four months in San Francisco, plans for the next four months and beyond ... the typical reflective and projective birthday talk of life and love.

Feeling the cool night air, we walked briskly, turning on 24th street, heading toward Noe Valley and our favorite 24-hour local donut shop, Happy Donuts. There are very few pleasures in this world that can surpass a late-night chocolate covered cake donut and cinnamon roll.

It was a fitting ending to our dining narrative--the apple, the sushi, and the donuts--and a fantastic beginning to a new year.

Kiji Sushi Bar and Cuisine
1009 Guerrero Street. (between 22nd and Alvarado streets)
San Francisco, CA 94110

Thank you, everyone, for the facebook messages, texts, e-mails, and phone calls. You made this day so special.

El Dia de Los Muertos

2010-11-03T20:50:00.013-04:00

Keeping vigil

While walking from my apartment to the starting point of El Dia de los Muertos parade yesterday evening, I reflected on the happy madness of the past few days. A confluence of many events--Halloween, the Giants winning the World Series, and Election Day--have stamped a glow on the collective consciousness of San Francisco. You see it on people’s faces, hear it in the small talk, and smell the wafts of cannabis in the air. Since last Saturday, every night has been a rollicking party in my Mission neighborhood ... and so I wondered what this night would reveal.

Glancing at my cell phone, I noted the time. Five minutes until 7 pm, the start of the parade opening ceremonies. My pace quickened as I approached the intersection of Bryant and 22nd Street, but already I noticed something strange. It was clear that my fellow pedestrians and I were converging on the same point, yet our strangely hushed demeanors and urgent pace unsettled me. It brought back a distant memory of being late to church on a significant holy day, scurrying across the parking lot after my parents, feeling unsure as to why we were in a rush, but knowing something important was taking place, something that I should not be late for.

Bryant Street was packed with bodies, and I headed straight into the pack. A plainly dressed man in brown holding a bowl of incense led the opening blessings, calling upon the crowd to vocalize. Vocalize exactly what, I wasn’t sure, but I bowed when told and blended my voice with the symphony of voices surrounding me. Staring openly at the fantastic representations of death, I appreciated the stark contrast of thick black lines outlining features on painted-white faces, visages artful in their grotesqueness. A sea of candles illuminated costumes portraying skulls and bones, made of feathers, lace, and leather. Slowly at first, the parade began to move forward, but as the drumming and dancing crescendoed in fervor and volume, so did the crowd. People played flutes, guitars, claves, bells, and whistles ... or they used their voices to accompany the hypnotic beating of the drums. Entire families with children and pets marched alongside the performers. It was often unclear who was marching and who wasn’t ... as everyone at some point did both. Camera flashes broke up the darkness, lending an air of paparazzi glamour to the gathering. And so I walked into the night, lost in the myriad of sights, sounds, and the smell of burning sage.

Mission Street

Hours later, the strains of the parade long faded, I came upon Garfield Park, where alters honoring the dead spoke to those alive, prompting us to remember, to make peace with the inevitable loss of even our very selves. A public shrine made up of hundreds of notes strung on clothes lines attracted passersby, who sat on the pavement to write personal notes to those no longer living. On this night, the division between the two worlds, the living and the dead, was suspended. I approached a small group of singers and musicians, swaying to their music, a lilting fiddle tune of eerie dissonance and charm. Gathered around an alter of candles, flowers, and statues of saints, their hauntingly mournful faces reflecting the yellow-orange of the burning flames, they were unrecognizable under the thick black and white paint; yet their honest emotions lay bare, unapologetic and beautiful before the cameras and stares of people like me.

Public shrine at Garfield Park

Grief, like joy, seeks its expression. And when that emotion is shared among people, the more intense and powerful its expression. Two nights ago, the Giants won the world series, and San Francisco spontaneously combusted. The instant the game was won and victory confirmed without a doubt, drivers pressed on their horns without mercy and firecrackers popped sharply in sporadic bursts. The alternating two-note ostinato of police sirens cut through the din, all the while accompanied by the underlying base-line “hum” of voices shouting. And my reaction as a quiet onlooker safe within the walls of my apartment? Hardly annoyed, quite the contrary, I felt my own inner excitement over the win reflected in the jubilant cacaphony outside.

I, like probably many in the Dia le los Muertos crowd, came for the spectacle of the night--the painted faces, the costumes, the music--but I walked home with my friends feeling deeply touched. I had not only looked, but I felt the sadness and the sweetness of those who held candles for their loved ones, the passion of the dancers and singers channeling their energy to connect with the sublime, and ... the silent tears of a solitary young woman in Garfield Park keeping vigil over a colorful photo collage, its subject a smiling and vibrant young man, perhaps her brother or a lover. It didn’t matter.

For it’s not the dead who need this night. It’s us, the living, who come together to give expression to the tender emotions we keep tucked away, shielded from the hard edges of our modern daily life. And whether it be the acknowledgement of a memory or a wailing song to the gods, it is a deep and powerful celebration ... El Dia de los Muertos.

A special thanks to Sidney, Ryan, Danny, Amy, and Josh ... fellow companions on this evening’s journey.

To those who have left us, you are not forgotten.

For more El Dia de los Muertos photos, click here.

Go Giants!

2010-10-23T23:39:00.004-04:00

[Returning online after a rather long hiatus. Jenny and I were out exploring our new town. Going to baseball games and whatnot.]

Play ball!

Horns honking, tires screeching, voices screaming ... so I definitely wasn’t dreaming that the San Francisco Giants had made it to the World Series. Mission Street was an impromptu streaming parade of cars and people decked out in Giants paraphernalia. Two fists with thumbs up reached toward me from the front passenger window of an approaching truck as I stood at a stop light. I smiled at the enthusiastic whooper, who proceeded to stick the entire upper half of his body outside the window. At that moment the light turned green, and the vehicle sped away, the sound of its blaring horn fading in the distance. Two thoughts crossed my mind. First, I sure hope somebody pulled that tipsy fellow back inside the truck. And second, I better hurry home before the happy madness turns into chaos. Seven minutes and two blocks later, I was turning the key to unlock the door of my cozy second-floor apartment. Home, sweet home!

Mission Street by day

The streets of my neighborhood have become familiar. I know how long it takes to walk from my apartment to my favorite bodega on 26th and Mission, my favorite bakery (Tartine) on 18th and Guerrero, and my favorite burrito on 24th and Valencia (fish burrito at Papalote). I know the idiosyncrasies of individual streets: which side is shadiest at different times of the day, where the hills rise and fall, and what sort of folk I most likely will encounter at a particular intersection. Like New York City, San Francisco is a walking town, and for this I am grateful. A section of road as small as three or four blocks becomes a sensory rich world when traveled on foot. Little changes in window displays of boutique clothing shops warrant a thoughtful moment of reflection, “Would I wear that ... and in that color?” The emanating smell of fresh coffee from a quaint cafe filled with laptops and their owners lure me to the open door, but I continually resist the urge to splurge by holding off until the next cafe one block down--throw a stone in any direction in my neighborhood and most likely you’ll hit a wi-fi cafe, each as cute as a button. And then the people ... these friendly fellow walkers will catch your eye, smile, and make you wonder if you’ve just forgotten their names and that if you gave it a few minutes you would be able to distinctly place them in a past era of your life.

The present era ... three and a half months a San Franciscan ... and a Giants fan. Sometimes I can hardly believe it. And in those moments I do feel like I am dreaming.

View of Golden Gate Bridge from Land's End

Brunch at Ella's

2010-07-20T06:08:00.006-04:00

Ella's

When a hostess announces that the wait for a table is some number greater than 20 minutes, nine times out of ten I politely say thank you, turn to head out the door, and start mentally running through the list of dining alternatives in close proximity. It’s not that I mind waiting the specified 20-some minutes. What deters me is the possibility of eating the bitter regret that comes when the 20-some minutes quickly turns into 30 and still no open table is in sight. “Why didn’t I listen to my gut and leave earlier?” This first drop of a thought inevitably bursts into a torrential downpour of self doubt and indecision: “Should I wait just a few more minutes or leave now? What if my name is called as soon as I walk out the door? But if I go much longer without food, I may not have the strength to chew.”

Weekend brunch, however, has always been immune to this potentially sorry state of affairs--at least in my book. A model meal that encourages peaceful societal gatherings, brunch is the equal opportunity joining of breakfast and lunch foods, accepting and tolerant of any lifestyle or sleepstyle, amenable to barely sober late-night revelers of the previous evening, families with little ones in tow, or those who sleep through their alarms and, were it not for brunch, might otherwise have missed out on scrumptious breakfast fare.

The latter was our case this past Saturday morning, as Jenny and I quickly and carefully drove up and down the steep hills of Dolores Street en route to meet our friend Joe at Ella’s, a popular brunch spot just south of the Presidio. Between shifts from higher to lower gears and vice versa, I surveyed my internal state of affairs--was I in the mood for something sweet or savory? Pancakes? Eggs? Something off the beaten brunch path?

My mind was still turning over the possibilities when we arrived at our destination, unremarkable in appearance, save the huddles of three and four outside the tinted door. I could make out a dense pack of people standing right inside the entrance. There was definitely a wait, but it didn't concern me in the slightest.

Ever since my first brunch experience in New York City many moons ago, the word “brunch” conjures up feelings of excitement and anticipation, of Christmas parties and summer vacations, times and places outside the ordinary flow of life, where norms are ignored and subverted. The mundane rhythm of the workweek suspends, the daily three-meal pattern cadences into two.

Menus are even beefed up for this special weekend affair, and whether it’s the family with crying babies or the squealing gaggles of girls debunking their dates from the night before, a pervasive sense of festive casualness lends itself to informal behavior, the freedom of the weekend allowing for that extra cup of coffee ... or two. Brunch is, in essence, a holiday in a meal.

And a much needed one for Jenny and me, following a week of busy days spent unpacking and plodding up and down the stairs from our apartment to the garage, our arms full of collapsed boxes, bubble tape, and refuse bags destined for the the garbage and recycling bins.

Though I was prepared to wait the projected half hour or longer, we were seated relatively quickly. To my delight, portions were big, flavors were tasty, and prices very reasonable. The springy give of the curried cauliflower in response to my first chomp into my potato scramble felt, tasted, and sounded fresh. The melted cheddar cheese over Jenny’s silky fried cornmeal sang in my mouth, enticing me to take a second forkful. A chorus of tastes and sounds provided the accompaniment to the solo lines of our voices as we highlighted the milestones of over half a decade worth of happenings--since our college graduation, the last time I had seen Joe.

Every so often I would look over at my neighbors, also smiling, ooh-ing over their pancakes piled high and slathered in syrup. While still listening to Jenny and Joe discuss the intricacies of job hunting in San Francisco, I took in the rising and falling of patrons as they sat to eat or stood to leave, the acrobatics of servers and waiters with dishes in both hands maneuvering through the maze of tables, chairs, and shifting bodies. It occurred to me that under normal circumstances I would be looking at my watch, wondering if I should get up and leave, to make room for the next customer standing at the doorway. But I let these rather ordinary thoughts go, returning to Jenny and Joe. This was brunch, after all, and I was on my holiday.

Potato scramble with curried cauliflower, shitakes, grilled red onion, cilantro, gouda, and egg. Honey oat raisin toast.

Fried cornmeal with cheddar and green onions. Eggs sunnyside up and biscuit.

Folded omelette with bacon, spinach, oven-roasted cherry tomatoes, and brie with biscuit.

Driving Reflections

2010-07-16T02:49:00.002-04:00

We just steered around a sharp corner along I-80 W in Nevada when it happened. The turn gave way to a straight open road when on the left, the sprinkled snow covered peaks of one of Nevada's north-south moutain ranges came into view. The puffy clouds receded to rays of sunlight, and at that moment, I believe I truly understood the definition of sublime.

As one normally averse to driving, I found myself surprisingly enjoying myself during the long stretch of road between the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah to the ever lush green of Lake Tahoe. There were times when I felt completely alone with Ann sound asleep in the car and Suzy, so quiet since her radar left me following only a straight line of highway. With the radio off, my only sign of any companionship was the howling of the wind. In this silence, I forced myself to stay in the present, to keep my mind from wandering back to the past or from growing anxious about the future. My reward for doing so was really seeing (not passively looking) and appreciating the vast beauty of the land. The brightness of the sun bouncing off the salt flats. The shades of purple and green on the desert red rocks. The breathtaking sunset upon reaching the forests of California. I was able to experience all of this--the change from one climate zone to the next--in one day! And in making these observations, I also felt somewhat humbled by my own existence. All I can say is, one feels very small driving in the desert or in the mountains.

I was reminded of a quote from Alain de Botton's book, The Art of Travel:

"It is not just nature that defies us. Human life is overwhelming...if we spend time in it [the vast spaces of nature], they may help us to accept more graciously the great, unfathomable events" that affect our lives.

I spent 10 days on the road...with many hours passing through nature...I assure you I still stress about events beyond my control now that we've reached San Francisco. Yet, I'm willing to hope that more exposure to the great outdoors may help mellow me out, that by standing in awe before such grand panoramas of land forms so close by, I'll often be reminded that I still have so much to be grateful for. Everything comes in its due time.

- Thanks Chau and Nicki for the reminder today

Earthquake Box

2010-07-13T23:04:00.000-04:00

“Look it up! We need to get one.” Jenny yells from the kitchen.

Sitting just fifteen feet away from my sister, I can barely make out her words as the clanging sounds of pots and pans accompany the sharp popping of bubble wrap and the extended groan of packing tape being mercilessly ripped away from its sticking purpose.

Jenny is unpacking one of the 49 boxes the movers delivered to our apartment in San Francisco earlier this morning, while I have been given the charge of investigating an intriguing commodity called an “earthquake box” that a friend recommended we get as a precautionary measure. Supposedly, one chains the aforementioned box--filled with practical things like water, food, first aid supplies, radio, flashlight, etc.--to one’s bed or some other relatively large and stationary object, so when the “big one” strikes, sending pots and pans flying out of cupboards only to land Lord knows where, at least the emergency supplies would be where last left.

The whole chaining idea had me skeptical though. I mean, “really?” So I sought a second opinion and consulted Google.

“Earthquake precautions,” I mutter to my fingers as they type the phrase into the search engine.

I click on the the first link that pops up. Nothing could have prepared me for the preventive prescription.

“Strap water heater securely to wall.”

It got even better ...

“Be sure your house is bolted to the foundation.”

Now my jaw is hanging, and my eyes are bulging. Firstly, “chain, strap, and bolt” are all verbs I would associate with a dank and dark torture chamber, not casual carefree San Francisco. Secondly, what the heck size bolts does one buy to bolt a house to its foundation? And most importantly, could I find them at Home Depot????

And here I thought Left Coast people lived spontaneously, but unbeknownst to me, they do things like strap heavy objects to walls and chain boxes to their beds. Well, I reason, it could be worse. Thankfully, I realize, I’m not a homeowner. For the first time ever, I feel smart about not making use of the Obama First-Time Home Buyer Credit.

I also realize that I’m hungry and in need of something familiar, something comforting ... something to remind me of home, far away from fault lines, earthquakes, and elephant-sized bolts.

“Jenny,” I call out, “hand me one of those pots.”

Fifteen minutes later we are eating our first “cooked” meal in our new apartment, a steaming hot pot of deliciously spicy ramen, oblivious to any care, save the splattering drops of red soup, as we slurp up the salty goodness.

Spicy ramen and salad

We made it!

2010-07-11T17:21:00.003-04:00

Thank you, thank you ... for coming along with us on our journey west. It has been the most amazing experience. We will keep updating this blog ... now that we've started, we just can't seem to stop. Lol!

Yours truly,

Jenny and Ann

Daily Stats: Sacramento, CA to San Francisco, CA (7/10)

2010-07-11T17:10:00.005-04:00

Twin Peaks, San Francisco - we flew into town

Miles travelled: 110 mi.

Major roads travelled: I-80W

Facts learned: I-80 connects San Francisco, CA, to Teaneck, NJ -- and runs right by New York City (hello to our friends in NYC!!!).

Funny lines of the day:

“This is a four-way watchout.” ~ Mo (at an intersection that should have been a four-way stop)

“I can’t believe we’re here. I feel like we were just in New York City.” ~ Ann

Shout outs:

-Mo, thanks for navigating on our final leg of this trip. You made our ride into our new hometown all the more memorable.

-Hisham and George, thanks for accompanying us on our first trip to Twin Peaks! That wind was something else!

Link to Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=456309&id=737260531&l=91a6d0e236

Daily Stats: Salt Lake City, UT to Sacramento, CA (7/9)

2010-07-09T23:30:00.002-04:00

Looks like the arctic tundra, except it's blazing hot.

Miles travelled: 634 mi.

Major roads travelled: I-80W (our new best friend)

Facts learned: Sacramento is the end of the road for Route 50, which starts in Ocean City, Maryland (hello to our friends in Maryland!!!!). Located approximately 1.5 hours (by car) from the mountains of Lake Tahoe and 2 hours from the shores of San Francisco, it’s a wonderful location for outdoor exploration!

Driving notes: The scenery and climate zones of today’s drive were the most diverse and captivating on this trip so far. From the eerie outerspace-like Bonneville Salt Flats of Utah to the purple mountains of Nevada to the lush Lake Tahoe forests of California, we were awed by the majesty and bio-diversity of this country.

Funny lines of the day:

“Hi, Ann. You missed most of Nevada.” ~ Jenny (upon noticing that Ann has awoken from her nap)

"Look! Tumbleweeeeeeeeed!!!" ~ Ann (in the midst of a dust storm, the scariest moment of the drive)

“It looks better in person than on the camera screen. I feel like I’m being gyped!” ~ Jenny (retorts when driver Ann insists that she takes photos of the expansive vistas and ephemeral sunsets)

Shout outs:

-Thanks to Mo and Amy for welcoming us to California and for throwing us a huge welcome party. Your new house is beautiful (congrats!), and we look forward to having you come visit us in San Fran!

Link to Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=456268&id=737260531&l=4a6b8f3ada

Daily Stats: Aspen, CO to Salt Lake City, UT (7/8)

2010-07-09T09:36:00.005-04:00

Miles travelled: 421 mi.

Major roads travelled: I-70W, US-6W

Facts learned: The Deseret alphabet is a sound-based alphabet developed by the Mormons (promoted by Brigham Young) in the mid-1800s. / TRAX, the public transportation system in Salt Lake City, essentially operates on the honor system (we bought tickets, but they were not required for entry, nor were they checked on the train) / Salt Lake City is a quiet town ...

Classical works selected as soundtracks for the majestic Colorado/Utah scenery: Well-Tempered Clavier Book I by Bach (Gould), Horn Trio by Brahms

Funny lines of the day:

“Drive 170 miles on I-70W.” ~ Suzy, aka our GPS (last stretch of I-70 on this trip!!)

“Is this the dessert?” ~ Ann (at Grand Junction, Colorado)

“Gusty winds likely.” ~ Road Sign (encountered on US-6)

Shout outs:

-Baymont Inn - thanks for the welcome chocolate chip cookies!

-Thank you to all of our wonderful friends - your e-mails, facebook messages, text messages, and phone calls are so appreciated. It gets lonely and tiring on the road. You guys keep us smiling.

-Mom and Dad - we love you!

Link to Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=455027&id=737260531&l=4d2ce243dc

Aspen (7/6 - 7/7)

2010-07-08T05:55:00.005-04:00

A shimmering Aspen tree

During our journey through Colorado, we met quite a handful of residents who admitted to never having been to Aspen. After our brief time spent in this quaint town of perfect streets, cute shops, and multitudinous ski lodges, we are confused as to why. With mountains to hike, gondolas to ride, ice cream and brownies to be savored, concerts to be enjoyed ... why would one want to be anywhere else?

Link to photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=454684&id=737260531&l=48a22d214d

Shout outs:

-Thanks to engineers Chris and Kevin, for letting us sit with you in the sound room. And to Lana, for doing what you do to keep the Aspen Music Festival going.

-Happy Birthday, JCho!!! Thank you, Ryan, Ridge, and Omar at Luxor for helping with the birthday surprise.

-D, thanks for your bb morning messages. You never stop amazing me. Good times, good times!

-Our biggest thanks goes to Jihyun Kim, who shared our hikes and meals, introduced us to practically everyone in town, and got us the best seats at last night's Aspen Music Festival all-Brahms chamber music concert featuring violinist Gil Shaham, cellist Lynn Harrell, and pianist Akira Eguchi.

Jihyun, fearless leader up the Ute Trail, you made us laugh and imparted to us your love of this town called Aspen. Yet, we still don't know how you manage to look glamorous and beautiful ALL the time. Safe travels back to New York City.

Life is good

2010-07-07T23:59:00.002-04:00

On a hike earlier today ...

“This is just like in Lord of the Rings, guys. We are ... climbing ... Mount Dooooom!” My words come painfully slowly, in between gasps for air.

“Yes,” says Jihyun matter-of-factly, as she looks down and back at me from her position at the front of the line, “I am leading you to hell.”

This response sends me into a near apoplectic laughing fit, and I stop mid-stride on a dauntingly steep trail on Ajax Mountain. To take another step is to inflict serious pain on my already aching body, so I double over and let the convulsions finish on their own. Grinning and grimacing at the same time, I look over at Jenny. There is no doubt that our raucous peals of laughter are scaring away the peaceful Aspen fauna.

Eventually the shaking subsides and I am able to move. “Tally ho and sally forth!” I cry.

Jenny whips her head around and raises her eyebrows, “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

I shrug and start walking. Meanwhile, Jihyun is already fifteen paces ahead, apparently intent on taking us to hell as quickly as possible.

* * * *

I’m a big proponent of humor, especially when faced with tough times or frustrating situations, like when you are hiking up a steep-ass mountain with no end in sight ... only rocks and trees ... and more rocks and even more trees. Humor, when accompanied by laughter relieves stress, literally shakes it out of one’s body, and softens the mind, allowing it to consider possibilities that a more serious or somber mood may overlook or just outright reject. Many times on this trip, I’ve had to rely on humor, and not always pleasant specimens of it, to stay focussed on the amazing and fantastic reality of Jenny and my road trip across the United States, chockfull with good food and time spent with the most generous friends. I know ... one would think that these facts alone should render me impervious to the regular trials and tribulations of daily life. Sadly, this is not the case.

Around lunch time yesterday, Jenny and I were driving around the parking lot at Chautauqua National Park in Boulder, Colorado. It was one of those gorgeously perfect days--ocean blue sky, honey yellow sun, and not a hint of humidity--that send people into a delirious frenzy to find the nearest beach or ... national park. While cheerful passersby were lost in their enjoyment of the day, we were narrowly eyeing them like hawks, our bellies grumbling.

“Is that person leaving?” I would ask tersely, wishing that some emergency would send him or her rushing to a car directly in front of us, so that we could swoop in and take the relinquished spot. And each time my hopes were dashed by either a wave indicating “sorry, not leaving” or the non-acknowledgement of a content individual headed toward the beckoning green mountains, I would emit a low grunting sound, expressing my displeasure in cave-woman like style.

After what seemed like one hundred circles around the parking lot--I’m sure it wasn’t that many, but it certainly felt that way--the long-awaited exiting family of four stops before a parked car in front of us. I put on my turn signal and watch the Land Rover back out of its spot. I feel my mood lifting ... until a spiffy neon blue car comes from the other direction and literally slips into our rightful spot before my disbelieving eyes. To make matters worse, the travesty has been committed by a middle-aged couple with smart-looking sun glasses and (most definitely) unnatural highlights in their hair.

Now Jenny is up in arms, and I’m just shocked. It’s a turning point. And the next two seconds are critical. I can become the fuming--yet still intelligent--young woman, ready to engage in a civilized conversation to right the wrong committed, while inwardly desiring nothing else but to paddle their behinds and send them to a corner for flagrant misbehavior. Or ... I can think of something absolutely outrageous to say to myself and maybe, just maybe, give the anger an escape valve and myself some time to consider alternative courses of action.

I say to Jenny, “They are old and ugly, and most likely friendless and very bitter people.”

We’re both still upset, but at least we’re not cursing. And, as I think about the situation some more, I reason the following: It’s not like Jenny and I are in a hurry. We are on a once-in-a-lifetime type of road trip across the country!!! Plus, we are young and beautiful. And any confrontation with the old and ugly runs the risk of turning unpleasant for very apparent reasons. But who knows? Maybe the couple hadn’t even seen us. And in which case, they aren’t that old and ugly. But in any case, Jenny and I will do a good and selfless deed for the day by letting them keep their spot. Win-win-win situation.

About three more parking-lot circles later, another spot opens up, and we pull into it. About an hour later, we are full from lunch and the beautiful views afforded by a very brief hike ... and are on our way to Aspen.

Life is good.

Roles in a hike

2010-07-07T21:49:00.007-04:00

Ann, Jenny, and Jihyun ... at the top

According to its difficulty rating in the Aspen hiking guide, the Ute trail is considered "easy." Maybe it was the altitude...or maybe it was simply because I've been out of shape, but the hike up for me was a HUGE challenge! I found myself huffing and puffing within the first ten minutes. If someone gave me the go ahead to turn around right then, I would have done so. But as luck would have it, I was with two determined ladies who both had the mindset to make it up this mountain at all costs.

In completing this task as a team, we seemed to have taken on three specific roles:

1. The Spearhead (aka Jihyun) - the person who leads the attack up the mountain; the one who thinks up strategies of how to go up ("avoid steepness when possible") and come down ("waddle"). The spearhead dictates the frequency of breaks (to which other members almost always respond "YES, PLEASE!") and sets the pace of the entire hike (moderately slow preferred).

2. The Clear Channel (aka Jenny) - the person who serves as the signal pathway for all messages coming from the spearhead to the anchor or vice versa. If the spearhead verbally indicates danger ahead ("Watch for those rocks"), the clear channel echoes that message with alacrity to the anchor ("WATCH FOR THOSE ROCKS!"). Please note, it is for the clear channel to decide the amplitude of such messages depending on whether or not the anchor is paying attention. A very efficient clear channel will try to keep herself in view and equidistant between the spearhead and the anchor to ensure no team member (most often, the anchor) is lost. This is done by paying attention to specific context clues. For example, if the anchor seems camera happy and tends to stop every five seconds to snap a shot along the hike, the clear channel needs to either a) rope in the spearhead by yelling out to slow down the pace or b) hurry up the rear by gently hinting to the anchor that the picture snapped five seconds before probably looks just as good as the one snapped five seconds later.

3. The Anchor (aka Ann) - the person who holds the final position in line of all the players in the hike. The anchor acts as the main support for the team. A hike can only go so far and/or as fast as the anchor can bring up the rear. The anchor (at least in our situation) heavily documents all aspects of the journey. The anchor is the last in line because she is too busy paying attention to details the others have missed. She notices the grand panoramas while the others are too busy looking down at the ground AND the smallest details like the shimmer of leaves in the sun.

With a team like the above, no hike is unconquerable! And afterwards, there will be plenty of pictures to remind ya'll that you did it!!

Daily Stats: Boulder, CO to Aspen, CO (7/6)

2010-07-07T04:24:00.006-04:00

Post-lunch interlude at Chautauqua National Park

Miles travelled: 214 mi.

Major roads travelled: I-70, CO-82

Facts learned: Aspen has an elevation of 7,908 feet at the city’s base. It is recommended that visitors drink lots of water to prevent dehydration due to the dryness of mountain air and increased breathing rate, a result of the decreasingly available oxygen at higher altitudes.

Classical works selected as soundtracks for the majestic Colorado scenery: Serenade for Strings by Dvořák, Appalachian Spring by Copland, Divertimento for String Orchestra by Bartók. All recordings were of chamber ensembles. (I’m definitely missing my beloved Camerata Notturna!)

Funny lines of the day:

“I feel like I’m Heidi in the mountains.” ~ Jenny (upon arriving at Chautauqua National Park)

“I personally hate attracting attention. But if you want to do this, I’ll take a picture.” ~ Jenny (in response to Ann’s proposition of whipping out her violin in the park)

“I’m stepping on the gas and nothing is happening.” ~ Ann (on one of the many sections of road that steadily climbs upward to Aspen)

Shout outs:

-Mark! We wish you were on the road with us. We love you, bro!

-Anna, thanks for your Boulder recommendations. Pearl Street Mall and Amante were great!

-Jihyun, the woman who makes the world turn. Thanks for finding us a perfect star-gazing spot in Aspen and for showing us around this town in true glamor style.

Link to Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=454238&id=737260531&l=47c648fb58

Daily Stats: Columbia, MO to Boulder, CO (7/5)

2010-07-06T10:21:00.006-04:00

Miles travelled: 749 mi. (our longest stretch of driving so far!)

Major roads travelled: I-70, I-70, I-70 ... did I mention I-70?

Facts learned: Missouri ties with Tennessee as the most neighborly state in the US; it borders Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennesee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, and Kansas (thanks Ibby!). Speed limit increases to 75 mph in Kansas. Boulder, located at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, sits at 5,430 feet above sea level.

CD Albums played thus far (in no particular order): Pieces of You (Jewel, 1995), Come Away with Me (Norah Jones, 2002), Moulin Rouge soundtrack (2001), Lying Awake (Ellery, 2006), Life for Rent (Dido, 2002), Ozomatli (1998), Best of Simon & Garfunkel - Greatest Hits, The Beatles 1, random mix albums

Funny lines of the day:

“This trip has been made possible by cruise control.” ~ Ann (somewhere in Kansas)

“I’m tired of being a nomad.” ~ Jenny (somewhere in Kansas)

Shout outs:

-To all our friends in Missouri, thank you for your wonderful well wishes and bits of wisdom.

-Lydia, we wish you safe travels back to Minneapolis!

-Anna, good luck with your move to Denver in September! Next time we pass through, we’ll drop by!

-Rob and Kathy, thank you for inspiring us with your love, enthusiasm, and generosity. We were so sad to leave you yesterday! Until the next visit ...

Link to Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=453862&id=737260531&l=3e2019bcb1

Fourth of July at the Unraths’ (7/4)

2010-07-06T09:18:00.004-04:00

We were afraid it was going to rain, but it ended up being a lovely day from start to finish. Our fresh blueberry pancake breakfast was followed by an exclusive tour of the University of Missouri campus, given by campus architect Rob Unrath. Brilliant hostess and chef, Kathy Unrath, Associate Professor of Art Education at Mizzou (and my hero), crowned the day by throwing the most perfect Fourth of July dinner party.

Link to Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=453759&id=737260531&l=d2caea4ea1

While driving ...

2010-07-06T03:12:00.005-04:00

I rarely drove a car at all during the past three years. Yet since last Monday, I've become quite reacquainted with my Honda civic, the same car I drove across the Mississippi Delta prior to coming to New York City. While cruising for hours in the sun, my mind tends to fluctuate between taking in new surroundings and reflecting on past moments. During long stretches of road, I take note of the small towns, having to decrease my speed when we pass. I like looking at the front yards of houses, reading interesting billboards, and marveling at the occasional cloud patterns in the sky. The scenery in Illinois and Kansas (the farms, the narrow two-lane roads, the flatness, and the expansive reach of land) bring to mind memories of when I would drive through cotton fields of central Mississippi. And before I realize it, those thoughts lead to others, which spiral into others until Ann snaps me back to attention and asks, "Are you ready to switch?"

Passenger preoccupations

2010-07-05T23:30:00.003-04:00

Somewhere in Kansas along I-70

When Jenny is at the wheel, I am at leisure in the passenger seat, a confining space surprisingly full of possibility. My mind is free to wander at will, and each day on the road I have been amazed at the variety of tasks I can accomplish while strapped into a moving vehicle. While I had anticipated snapping photos, surfing radio frequencies, and munching compulsively, I did not anticipate the following preoccupations.

Preoccupation #1: Geography lesson. At the start of every drive, our all-knowing Garmin GPS (fondly referred to as “Suzy”) plots out our course. As the passenger, it is my responsibility to double check the route as we chug along, monitoring its soundness. Not once have I contested Suzy’s directives, but in the process I have learned a great deal about our country’s geometry while consulting our 2010 Michelin Road Atlas. For example, who knew that the intersection of Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona formed four ninety-degree angles? Not I ... until today.

Preoccupation #2: Sunblocking measures. One of the very few negative effects of this cross-country drive has been uneven tanning of the face, arms, and upper legs. Hours of intense sun exposure, especially between the hours of 11 am and 4 pm, require constant application of sunblock (Neutrogena SPF 70 is preferred) and repositioning of the overhead visor. The changing trajectory of the car combined with the Earth’s rotation constantly shifts the focus of the sun’s heat, keeping me busy, as if over a stove, trying to make sure that both sides (of me) cook evenly.

Preoccupation #3: Correspondence. Any romantic notions I had about this journey being a break from our world of instant communication quickly disappeared when I realized my national calling and data plan really does work nationally. During stretches of Colorado green on I-70, with not a soul or housing structure in sight, I could depend upon hearing my Blackberry’s signature Facebook “riiiing,” indicating I had a message or a wall post from a friend. And so, friends are answered, e-mails are written, and I feel that in some sense, this ride is just like any other.

I can’t decide if I like this or not. Something else to ponder while in the passenger seat.

Daily Stats: Chicago, IL to Columbia, MO (7/3)

2010-07-04T18:58:00.003-04:00

Entering Missouri ...

Miles travelled: 409 mi.

Major roads travelled: I-72, I-55, US-54

Destination facts learned: Dippin Dots were invented in Columbia, Missouri. / Brad Pitt attended the University of Missouri.

Funny lines of the day:

“Oh look at this little town here. This is kind of exciting.” ~ Jenny (on entering Pittsfield)

“I think I'm getting sunburnt on my nose.” ~ Jenny

Shout outs:

-Rob and Kathy Unrath--our family in Columbia, Missouri. Thank you for opening up your gorgeous home to us. Congrats, Kathy, on making tenure!!! Go Tigers!

Daily Stats: Chicago, IL (7/2)

2010-07-04T18:18:00.007-04:00

The Egg ... or the Bean ...

NEW: Links to photos have been added to prior Daily Stats entries.

Miles travelled: 0

Major roads travelled: NA

Funny line of the day:

“Here is the Egg, of which Jenny and the rest of the world call the Bean." ~Father Pat

Shout Outs:

-Thank you, Sandy! I'm so thankful I finally got to see you in Chicago! Peter is adorable. Well done, well done! ;-)

-Tomeka, the oatmeal shake rocked our world. Thanks for showing us the best eats in town!

-Laura, thanks for biking all the way to Lincoln Park for our catchup coffee and tea.

-Megee, Tina, Kristina, Cecilia, and Janney--we hope you girls are having a blast at Taste of Chicago. Kar-mun, Steve, Jihyun--we hope the pizza was amazing! So sorry we missed all of you!

-Father Pat, congrats on making tenure!!! And thank you, thank you, thank you ... to the tenth power. Jenny and I cannot express how grateful we are to you and Father Tony. So many memories made on this visit. Chicago will always feel like home because of you. We miss you already!

Link to Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=452832&id=737260531&l=9a38e08793

Daily Stats: Ann Arbor, MI to Chicago, IL (7/1)

2010-07-02T15:06:00.008-04:00

Miles travelled: 241 mi.

Major roads travelled: I-94

Destination fact learned: The Hostess Twinkie was invented in Chicago.

Funny lines of the day:

“Where's my violin?” ~ Ann

(After closing the locked door of our friend's apartment with no way of re-entry, Ann realizes her violin is still inside ... yeah, it wasn't so funny at that moment.)

Shout Outs:

-Father Pat and Father Tony, thank you for putting us up on such short notice and throwing us a welcome par-tay. It's clear that the Perboyre Mission House is the most happenin' spot in all Chi-town.

Annie, even in 4th grade, a perfectionist

2010-07-02T13:17:00.007-04:00

In Spanish, there's a very popular saying, "Dime con quien andas y te dire quien eres," which translates to "Tell me who you hang out with and I will tell you who you are." While staying with my sister's childhood friend in Ann Arbor, I was reminded of this while observing these two friends, Ann and Yaseen, who have known each other for years. The evening was spent recounting stories, catching up on times lost, and laughing at their old selves from long ago. This story was my favorite of the Annie from elementary school.

Ann: Remember that 4th grade history test on the Alamo?
Yaseen: No...
Ann: I remember it because I was so baffled by how I got a check minus and you got a perfect score. I wrote an entire paragraph in response to this one question on what happened at the Alamo. I listed dates and names of generals. You only wrote down three words..."
Yaseen: Yes, I remember! "Many...Texans...died." BOOM! ONE HUNDRED PERCENT! (He throws both arms in the air)

They are both laughing now.

Ann: I kept looking at both our papers, confused by the results.
Yaseen: That was redemption Annie for all the times you beat me on those tests. Thanks for reminding me. How could I forget that?!

In transit

2010-07-01T12:15:00.001-04:00

I am in transit.

trans - (Latin) across, through

it - (Latin) to go

I am going through ... states.

I’ve often used this term to describe my physical state of being in daily life. But transit in New York City was always within the bounds of my familiar neighborhoods. Midtown Manhattan to Woodside, Queens. Repeat daily. Similar to washing one’s hair--lather, rinse, and repeat if necessary--my movements were habitual and comforting. Now the neighborhoods (and states) I pass through are unfamiliar, each movement new and exciting.

Yet inwardly, I am in transit as well. Even though we've been on the road for only two days, I've been fortunate to reconnect with many friends from different times in my life. Over delicious meals and tea time with chocolate, we "go through" shared memories, delving deep into the past. Like in Dickens' A Christmas Carol, I see my life flash before my eyes--each friend guiding me through the times spent together. Remember how Mr. Marceron's fifth-grade classroom always smelled like coffee and vinegar? Remember that amazing apple-picking trip to Syracuse and the piping hot pot of potato-leek soup we guzzled at 3 am after the long car ride from the City? To really be with someone who knew you before you were you today is truly a gift, for better or for worse. Even more powerful than letters or mementos, a comrade can tease out those memories and details left at the very back and dusty sections of the mind's filing cabinet.

Traveling through space and time. "In transit” has taken on new meaning ... at least for now.

Daily Stats: Pittsburgh, PA to Ann Arbor, MI (6/30)

2010-07-01T11:17:00.012-04:00

University of Michigan medical buildings and field at twilight

Miles travelled: 286 mi.

Major roads travelled: I-76, I-80

Destination facts learned: The electrocardiogram and the polio vaccine were invented at the University of Michigan. / The arboretum of Ann Arbor, often referred to as the “Arb,” is huge ... very huge. / It stays light outside extremely late into the evening in the summer time here. (I was convinced it was 6 pm until I looked at my cell phone clock, which read 9:45 pm.)

Funny lines of the day:

“It has been shown that if children are hungry, they will eat [vegetables].” ~ Yaseen (on training young children who refuse to eat vegetables)

“You can’t miss it here. Look, there’s another one. The march of the Prius.” ~ Yaseen (on the overwhelming number of hybrid vehicles in Ann Arbor)

Shout outs:

-We are deeply indebted to Yaseen Oweis, Prince of Huron Towers, and his trusty steed, the Diplomat. No where else on this fine earth have we encountered such resourcefulness and ingenuity ... or as many working computers in a palace boasting the greenest view of all of Ann Arbor.

-Amanda, YiJia, Oliver, and Ivy--what a beautiful family! Thanks for having us over to your lovely home.

Link to Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=452710&id=737260531&l=b21ede451e

Daily Stats: New York, NY to Pittsburgh, PA (6/29)

2010-06-30T17:43:00.008-04:00

Miles travelled: 376 mi.

Major roads travelled: I-76, I-81

Destination fact learned: Pittsburgh is the City of Bridges. The city is ranked third in the world for having the most bridges within city limits after Hamburg and Amsterdam.

Funny lines of the day:

“Our car is too heavy! Our car is too heavy!! We won’t be able to get up the hills in San Francisco!!!” ~ Jenny

“Well, we can dump stuff along the way ...” ~ Ann

Shout Outs:

-Matt, Steph, and Will--you have the most fabulous apartment in New York City! Thank you for letting us spend our final night in New York with you!

-A BIG thanks to Kar-mun and Steve, Virginia and Marc, and Chris. The GPS is amazing. It has saved us many times already.

-This leg of the trip was sponsored by Lauren Dunseath (NYT crossword extraordinaire) and fabulous Fritz (cutest bunny in the world). We give 5 stars to the LD Hotel for its all inclusive package: turned down sheets, bedtime stories, and breakfast banana pancakes.

Link to Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=451186&id=737260531&l=02d6738adb

Monday morning junkluggers

2010-06-30T08:04:00.005-04:00

The sound of a mosquito's ominous hum magnified a hundredfold awoke me from my deep slumber on Monday morning. It had been a late night of packing, the final push before moving day, and I had collapsed on my sister's bed. Slowly coming to my senses despite the nasal drone of our door buzzer, I mutter, "Who is that?" Immediately panic forces my eyes completely open and I sit upright, "The junkluggers are here!"

Buzzzzz. Buzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Now Jenny is frantic, and the two of us are scrambling like ants trying to find clean clothes amidst the sea of boxes, some taped closed, others overflowing with their contents--clearly NOT ready to be moved. (Thankfully, the movers were scheduled to come later that day.) Thirty seconds later, during which time I've found more dirty expletives to use than I normally do in a year, I'm running to the door, traces of drool still on my face, my uncombed wild woman hair flying every which way.

Our junkerluggers, two young lanky looking people in their late 20s, one guy and one girl, puzzled me. They appeared so ... normal. Granted, they were much taller than me, but I had expected a team of brawny strapping men with bulging biceps to arrive and muscle the massive couch in our living room down the four flights of stairs of our elevator-less apartment. Maybe these were the greeters and the real luggers were still downstairs?? Dressed in bright green t-shirts with their company logo, junkluggers.com, they looked more like Geek Squad than gladiator.

The bearded quiet guy politely asked which things we wanted them to make disappear. Jenny listed our unwanted furniture, all too flimsy or too old to be wanted by anyone in their right mind. And then, before our very eyes, these two very nice and very normal people started hauling off a twin-size mattress and box spring with the same ease and casualness as I would a music stand. Was I really awake?

I glanced at Jenny and said out loud, "Could we have moved all this stuff ourselves and saved some money?" Then I looked out the door at the four flights of stairs. Nope. Not a chance.

* * * * *

Two beds, a desk, and kitchen table later, the guy asks, "So, where are you going?"

"San Francisco."

"Oh," he looks at me knowingly, "I did that a while back."

Immediately I perk up. (By this time I have washed my face and combed my hair and am able to make small talk.) "How was that? Why did you come back here?"

"Well," says he, "I ran out of money and after being homeless for six months I got tired of that and came back."

Strangely enough, he was the second person I had met within a 24-hour period who had migrated west to California and migrated right back to New York after disillusionment--our lugger with homelessness, our waitress from the night before with the night life.

I have no illusions of being homeless or a party animal--they just aren't my particular cup of tea--so I continue to move forward.

Often asked question

2010-06-27T23:42:00.006-04:00

Question: What will you miss most about New York City?

Answer: Hmmm ... that’s a hard one. But I would have to say the Manhattan skyline.

Manhattan has been compelled to expand skyward because of the absence of any other direction in which to grow. This, more than any other thing, is responsible for its physical majesty. It is to the nation what the white church spire is to the village--the visible symbol of aspiration and faith, the white plume saying that the way is up. The summer traveler swings in over Hell Gate Bridge and from the window of his sleeping car as it glides above the pigeon lofts and backyards of Queens looks southwest to where the morning light first strikes the steel peaks of midtown, and he sees its upward thrust unmistakable: the great walls and towers rising, the smoke rising, the heat not yet rising, the hopes and ferments of so many awakening millions rising--this vigorous spear that presses heaven hard.

--E. B. White, Here Is New York

Photo of Manhattan skyline taken at 12:25 pm on 9 December 2009 while riding the Q24 bus on the BQE (Brooklyn-Queens Expressway).

A mild ache

2010-06-27T09:41:00.009-04:00

During the past week, I find myself growing more reflective and nostalgic over the past 3 years in New York. I replay certain clips in my head of past moments. Meeting friends for the first time. Discovering tango. Working late nights with co-workers. Sharing a feast at a new restaurant. Walking briskly down streets or across long avenues. I never expected the move to San Francisco to provoke such thoughts of the past. I expected the move to push me to think ahead, to want to start afresh, and to leave what is behind so that I would feel...lighter. I did not plan for the difficulty of actually letting go of the weight of this city, defined so much by the wonderful people I have grown to love here. More often than not, the lows I have experienced have accompanied such highs. Stress at work has brought camaraderie among teammates. Prior relationships have held as many memories of pure joy as there have been hurt and misunderstanding. Chaos and bustle of nightlife have resurfaced as silly stories, often prompting loud laughter, the next morning. When I look at the big picture of what/who I am leaving, I hesitate to drop anything.

A mild ache sets in.

I wonder if I should be somewhere other than where I am.

I try not to think about it too much because such thoughts just delay the packing process and I have only a day left to finish before the moving company gets here. I always get a second wind of motivation when Ann is around. Her positivity and excitement of what lies ahead makes me feel braver to keep looking forward...to have faith that over time, San Francisco will become as dear to me as the one in my soon-to-be past.

Making progress with my room

2010-06-26T02:17:00.003-04:00

25 June 2010: Jenny is very happy with me.

24 June 2010: Jenny is not very happy with me. But I seem to be doing just fine.

To keep or not to keep

2010-06-26T01:27:00.002-04:00

To keep or not too keep ... that is the question I've been asking myself constantly these last few days. How many times have I said to myself in the past, "Let me hold on to this. It may come in handy some day"? And yes it may, but it also may not. And given the number of times I choose to hold on to something, probability says that I will not use most of what I save. Except when it comes to letters from friends or other sentimental objects. These items represent memories of bygone times, perhaps of a dear friend, or even a different self. As I was sifting through one of my letter boxes today, I found comics drawn by a friend of mine who passed away a couple of years ago from leukemia. All of a sudden, I was in fourth grade, sitting next to Ann Metz in our social studies class, covertly folding a note to slip in her desk. We had pseudonyms when addressing our missives--she was the "Ark," and I was the "Dove." Would I have had that precious moment of remembrance, had I not saved her letters? Life goes by too fast as it is--one barely has time to process the events of any given day, let alone periods of one's life in retrospect.

A little life pruning has its benefits. Discard the clothes, shoes, bags, and humidifier. (I can get a fondue pot again in California if I really need it.) Hold on to and revisit the memories. They will remind you where you have come from. Without remembering the joys, trials, and tribulations on a journey, how can one learn or take pleasure from the experience?

Packing, packing, packing

2010-06-24T11:56:00.000-04:00

Packing, packing, packing. Jenny is on me constantly about packing up as much of my stuff as I can in the next two days. Even though the movers come to pick up our things on Monday, we have much to do besides packing this weekend. Interspersed between spewing spurts of packing tape and bubble wrap--which is quickly taking over our apartment--I am shuttling to Manhattan to see friends for last meals together, running to Beacon's Closet to drop off parts of me that I have decided to leave behind (my two-sizes-too-small pastel blue capri pants, a cute red purse in the shape of an upside down hatchet head, etc. etc.), arranging lodging plans with kind friends across the country willing to take pity on two New York nomads traveling to San Francisco, and practicing for a performance on Sunday. On Saturday, I'm off to Greenwich, Connecticut, to see my dear friend Christine--the first person I met when I arrived in New York six-and-a-half years ago--get married. How fitting it is that she will be one of the last people I see off before I leave!

Yes, much to pack before this weekend ...