“Don” Stop Believing

 This Saturday I traveled back to my lovely, wacky city. I have never walked through the DIA airport with such purpose. Even the act of stuffing my face with a bagel was an act of celebration, sitting underneath the blinking sign “San Francisco.” I took a shuttle back to the school after I arrived, and unfortunately I was the last to be dropped off. We circled the neighborhoods surrounding the campus making various stops, but all the while I maintained eye contact with my school, my castle on a hill. Oh how it still puts everything in its midst to shame. Oh how glorious it feels to be even a small part of it.

 While I was temporarily locked out of my dorm room (ID card reactivation) I reentered the hearts of my friends freely. Though the good-byes were sad, the hellos were almost worth the separation.  We kicked off the new semester by attempting to be sporty and spirited and attended our first USF basketball game. We mostly mimicked the cheerleader dances, and lowered ourselves in the bleachers to the Cha Cha Slide, marveling at the instantaneous response to “Everybody clap your hands!” Like the rhythm of the city, the flow of the song was enveloping, the excitement everywhere yet no where identifiable, the happiness lyrical and pure.

 In the last seconds of the game we shouted as loud as the team’s own coach as the opponent recovered the ball and won the game by one point. But with our spirit barely scathed we resolved to track down our arguably creepy mascot, the “don.” We spent half of the game evaluating the shrivels of his arms and the beady nature of his eyes. Not that it stopped us from taking that awkward mascot picture that any true college student must have.


The next day I ventured with friends into Hayes Valley. It is an up-and-coming part of town sprouting from the destruction of an overpass highway in the last big earthquake. But this gem of an area seems to have beamed and burst and widened as quickly as a smile on a child’s face. We walked amongst quirky, zigzagging trees that seemed to drift along the sidewalk like people. They were certainly dressed like people, many covered with the hippie attempts and failures of knitting groups gone wild. Our destination was the 21st Century Café, adorned with delicate silverware, decadent hanging lights, and delightful afternoon personalities in search of treats galore. I ordered a cup of hot butterscotch, though I asked for a description of each dessert. Who needs a sample when the descriptions alone are every bit as delectable?

 To the dismay of my friends I hiked my sturdy Colorado lungs right up a series of hills to Alamo Square, the home of the painted ladies. One would think there was a light display, a concert, something to explain the huge gathering of picnic blankets, slobbering dogs and cuddling couples. But nope, no event but the every day spectacle of the city, as picturesque as a postcard, as prolific as a novel, as profound as the strokes of an Impressionist’s canvas. Hundreds of locals gather there every weekend, for some beauty just never becomes commonplace.

Here I walk the hills like mountains, sit in my hilltop classrooms like a queen, beam at my friends as though we never have been nor never will be apart. The sparkle of the city is never far away, calling out to me like a pile of jewels I have yet to try on. My smile is as wide as the creepy mascot, and I feel as though every moment of every day here is a slam-dunk in a game I cannot lose. I know I can always cha cha back here, right back home.