The End of the Beginning

 "I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is."
Vladimir Nabokov

So the final pen has dropped in triumph or in pure exhaustion. Boxes have been tossed and taped and manhandled into overpriced storage lockers, and the content of suitcases has been squished into oblivion. I stood alone in my empty dorm room, humming ‘I left my heart in San Francisco’ as I contemplated the bumpy paint and my first year of college. I traced the walls as if they would give in like sand, as if my heart beat would impress upon my one-year home one last mark of my existence.

When I regarded the city one last time, it blinked innocently, unaware of any fast-approaching separation. On the plane ride back to Colorado, I surveyed surrounding faces for any sign of insurmountable feelings. I wondered when my own rip tides of emotion would pull me under. In the plane’s last few seconds on the ground, I imagined my feet once more walking me through campus, tickled by the sacred college grass. I remembered the ache of San Francisco hills attempted in heels, and sprints for the bus managed in dresses. I recalled the purposeful steps made to my friends’ doors, in late night slippers or early afternoon flip-flops.

I returned to Colorado with lighter hair and hippie dresses and a college sweatshirt. I think of my days on the beach with hats blown away by the wind, tangoing through golden wisps of fog. I feel the maxi dresses hardened by the water and textured by the sand from strolling. My sweater still smells slightly of campfire smoke and granola. My purse is a scrapbook of ticket stubs and business cards and collector coins. I trace each one and remember the disco light of dancing halls, the echo of opera, the chill of dusk on Alcatraz, the buzzing orange of a Giants game.


I feel the experiences that at one time surrounded me settle into 2D form, filling my picture frames and Microsoft word documents. What was my constant reality suddenly feels like a hazy, distant past.  But it does anything but fade into obscurity. With distance, in miles and in minutes, every memory becomes more valuable. Every stranger is deemed a friend, every conversation a philosophy. Such is the nature of memory. Every line of music triggers a heartstring, every cable car ride is comprised of bright colors and bright faces, every taste is of elegance.

My rip tide is gentle. My descent downwards from my castle, my university on a hill, is softer than the waves of the ocean, smoother than the steep San Francisco streets. I leave shrouded in the glow of experiences that can now never be taken from me, kept in permanent custody in my heart. This is merely the end of the beginning—soon my return will recolor the memories I will try so hard to preserve until then. When the second chapter comes I will be reminded once more why I started reading.

Warmth

Decadent memories flutter lightly around me like butterfly kisses, and the city fastens me in its arms. I feast off of the dance in my step, gentle smiles shared between friends, and the ever-climbing click of the cable car announcing the next destination. The entirety of my experience is like a three course meal laid in front of me, each bite worth contemplation, each leading into the next creamy cornerstone. There is nowhere I taste the richness of my experience like the restaurants that become my backdrops. Filled with bubbly birthdays, toasts to tickled-pink triumph, and arrangements of flowers and laughter, I can only describe the taste as warmth.

Part One: A Blooming Breakfast

There is nothing like disgruntled sleepy-eyed souls gathered under one roof, soothed back into the beauty of humanity by the first taste of breakfast. Is it worth a 45-minute trudge through a grumbling city, weaving oneself through coffee breath and watch-obsessed work goers? Is it worth an exponentially growing line of San Franciscans that take this one bite of breakfast and happiness more seriously than most take their jobs?

Absolutely. In honor of a friend’s birthday (and made possible by a sudden class cancellation), two friends and I set our sights on the topic of mystic murmurs throughout the city—Mama’s breakfast diner in North Beach. Known as one of the best breakfast joints in the city, we thought an early wake up call and arrival would expedite our anticipated spiritual experience. Instead we resigned ourselves to the back of a line filled with lip-biting, fluttery customers awaiting their next slice of revelation. As we waited we watched Chinese dance lessons slide elegantly through the park, sword-play grow saucy, and children tug their elderly grandparents along like toys.

   When at last our turn came, a beaming waiter opened the door of the temporary oasis, ushering us in while promising the rest of the line “just one more minute, just one more minute.” A table clothed in sunlight awaited, the warm pressure constant and comforting. Amidst Coca-Cola bottles filled with lone roses and an early morning lullaby of murmured conversation, my friends and I shared hazelnut, chocolate, banana, and raspberry French Toast and an oozing cheeseburger. We let the fruit stain our fingers blotchy red and the grease coat our throats. The sun only added to its richness.

Part Two: Charming Cheesecake

As a sequel to our birthday breakfast, my friends and I set our sights higher—seven floors higher to be exact. We put our name in for the Union Square Macy’s top floor Cheesecake Factory. As we waited we wandered through city streets, poking our heads into coffee shop windows and down alleys where tables stood ready for the next Lady and the Tramp. When our name was called sooner than expected, we sprinted back up the hills down which we had so casually strolled, our sample mall perfumes leaving barely a trace.

When we returned we claimed our seats on the outdoor patio. Around us rose a city airbrushed with the light of dusk. A menu of cheesecakes and creamy feathered coffee awaited us. We decided on a dulce de leche, a pineapple, and a coffee chocolate mix. When they arrived we watched each other carefully position our first bites, rotating each plate slowly and methodically. Each bite was so soft yet so textured by flavor, and even as a fast eater I took time to worship every worthy wisp.

We stayed until dusk turned to dark, watching the lights of the city flicker on like jewels caught in sudden sun. My stomach settled serenely, and my friends remained shrouded in the glow of coffee tendrils and smiles even as the sun sank. It felt as though neither wind nor time could shake us from the top of our peaceful palace, even as the buzz of the city crashed like a wave below us.

Such are the memories, strong and sure, worth reveling in and frequenting when waves crash harder. When my very core warms at the taste of nostalgia, at the sight of a friend, at the stirrings of a city. I want my three course meal to last a lifetime, its presence as pronounced as the sun’s touch on the skin and a city’s place in the sky.