“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.

Legos, Luggage, and Line Dancing

Before leaving for San Francisco I planned one last blow out weekend with my Colorado friends, living a day in each of their lives at their Colorado colleges. I was strangely excited to crash on college floors—my dad says if I want to be an adventurer I should embrace it. So I took the rather unsociable cold shoulder of the floor as a right of passage. The beginning of years of drifting. My life has been thrown up in the air and no part of it knows where to land yet. So I float to people, not so much places. To whichever friend and whichever floor will take me.

I began my college weekend at the University of Denver, meeting one of my friends to head up to the University of Colorado at Boulder. Coincidentally my friend’s name is Aleks and she ran into two DU students also named Alex riding the same bus. So began the adventures of Hannah and the Three Alexs. We arrived at the campus luggage in tow. Of course I wanted to swing my bags easily under my arms, perhaps dance and sing “I have Confidence!” like Maria from the Sound of Music. Instead I barely managed to save my luggage from a seemingly targeted bike attack. I never knew the stereotypical chilled out hipster CU student could pedal that angrily. But that frisky spurting energy was everywhere. Even the steps of my friend were different, overconfident then indecisive, bold and brave then flighty.

Building at CU Boulder

University of Denver Campus

Over the course of the weekend I toured both the CU Boulder and DU campus extensively, trying to open every locked entrance, creeping through every cracked door. We danced on amphitheater stages, gave pretend lectures in classrooms, stared in awe at the 3D printer in the school store. At CU Boulder we located a mini museum, complete with a moon rock, a room of old cheerleading uniforms, and most importantly a lego recreation of the entire school. At DU we ate at the original Chipotle and experimented with the library system of moving bookcases. They fold around you like the closing corridors of an ever-shifting maze.

But by far the best part of my trip, something I didn’t even know I’d signed up for until I was on the bus heading there, was an impromptu night of Contra Dancing. I would love to say I was a natural. But there were only 10 people in the lesson portion, meaning the instructor easily picked out my clumsy steps. I was chastised for not making enough eye contact, something my huge eyes have always been more than capable of doing. So I set myself to embodying this Jane Austen novel dance, deciding to stare down the night.

I danced every single dance for the 3 hours we were there. One of my friends got motion sickness after the first dance while others found themselves tired and wandered off. Even when cramps tickled my sides, even when my boots were scuffed and stepped on, even when I told myself for sure I would sit the next one out, I could never resist an outstretched hand. My heart whined like a dog scratching at a door, overflowing into dance after dance.

Over the course of the night I met one of the owners as well as many dedicated attendees, older dance partners that had been going every month for some 30 years. They taught me so much, each bringing with him a different energy, a different rowdy eloquence. At the end of the night a few of my partners came up to me and congratulated me on how far I had come, remarking that I had my own formidable energy.

Part of the dance was mastering the moves, but part of it was the magic of being pulled along, as though by a fast paced spurting river I knew would never hurt me. While most recommend eye contact while swinging with a partner, I embraced the dizziness, so entranced by my surroundings I wanted to affirm that I wasn’t indeed in a fairy tale. For one of the dances I partnered up with a college friend, and neither of us could master the steps. Strangely enough it was one of my favorite dances. We laughed the whole time, as each experienced dancer whispered quickly in our ear what motion to make next. At another point I completely missed my partner’s hand and went flying out of the line. His response was a comical "You’re LOST IN SPACE!!!!”


The next day I returned to dragging around luggage, nothing but a soreness in my legs and a goofy smile on my face as proof of the weekend. I’d parted with the floor, and braced myself for the parting with my friends. Drifting, following, dodging crazed bikers, dancing the night away. It is quite a life. I know that with such memories, and with such places to go, I’ll never truly be lost in space. I’ll be pulled into a spontaneous dance by the people I love, on a dance floor wherever it is we all land. Who knows if we will have mastered all the moves by then, but if it doesn’t matter in Contra dancing how can it in life? We’ll remember these years as intricately constructed lego models, every piece somehow clicking into place. And we’ll continue to dance to every song.

A Stroke of Local Color

 San Francisco is known architecturally for its row after row of colorful little houses. But it is the people and their colorful little hearts that make the city all it is. They come in all different designs, all with different trimmings and rough edges. But they all stick out like the houses dotting the San Francisco hills—filled to the brim with personality, brightening the days of others, bulging against the foggy gray of the sky. They ooze out of city streets, adding true San Francisco flavor to any outing.

I’d like to profile a few of these fine fellows, the first whom I’ve come to know and love as Statue Man. He’s one of the many street performers that mark the corners of Fisherman’s Wharf. Statue Man stands still for hours and hours, shifting slightly to test the sanity of passerby that do double takes. He wears sunglasses to hide what I can only imagine must be twitching eyes. No smile on a statue that I have ever seen looks that worn out, as though the sculptor forgot to smooth his hand over the edges. But even Statue Man finds a way of amusing himself in his job. I’ve seen countless kids get too close, straining to touch him. He will then jerk suddenly to loom over them, breaking into a crazed theatrical smile that is menacingly real. The children run screaming and Statue Man reaches his hand out to the parent, wiggling his fingertips for the money.

 I went with a friend to what SF calls their annual “Trolley Dances.” In a series of dances set in varied city locations, different dance troupes redefined public art. From Latin choreography danced along walls to dancers rolling down hills, the audience did not know where the performers would appear. The funniest of these began with two dancers sleeping—in the middle of the road. Slowly they awakened and others appeared. The event planners obviously did not think of posting signage to alert the cars of the neighborhood. As women were thrown into the air and men lunged underneath to catch them, cars screeched to a stop all around them. They danced, after all, in the middle of an intersection. The reaction of the cars was half of the show. Stubbornly they would try and inch around the dancers, then fail and dramatically throw the car into reverse. One angrily backed up the entire length of the street. The best moments were those in which the dancers winked and waved to them goodbye.

As the audience waited for the bus to take them to the next dance, a scrawny man whistled to gain everyone’s attention. He began to perform the usual, juggling, magic tricks, fire. He knew the huge audience wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, he just might have been following us awaiting his opportunity. He purposefully jumped in front of cars, performing tricks right over their hoods and then acting hurt when they sped away. He didn’t speak a word until he saw our bus turning the corner. He then shoved his hat into the crowd, delivering a monologue beginning with “I’m an Italian immigrant!!!” in an accent I could not quite deem real. When he’d collected his money, he threw his hat back on his head, placed his tricks back in a bag, and just like that blended in with a crowd turning the corner. He didn’t look back. 

The local color is by no means limited to people. I waited for a bus by a very comical little fellow, a pug tied to a post waiting for its owner. He was cute enough, with a characteristic smashed face. But everyone who passed greeted that dog by name. Everyone! He just sat there lazily wagging his tail against the ground, tilting his head at his groupies, his fan club members, his unending popularity. San Francisco is no small town, but there I was petting the city dog. I ended up meeting the owner before my bus came. She shrugged at his fame as well. She said the dog even had a Twitter page. She mentioned they went every month to the San Francisco tradition “Pug Sunday.” If you’re a pug lover, San Francisco is the right city for you! Owners gather in a park and show off their overweight, drooling, famous little furry friends. Imagine that.

My favorite encounter with a local thus far followed the Disney symphony I went to see downtown with some friends. In the mood, we sang some of the songs as we waited at the bus stop. One of these was “Be Our Guest” from Beauty and the Beast. Gradually our remembrance of the words puttered out, and we stopped. There was a man, completely ordinary looking, waiting for the bus as well. He looked to be in his thirties, wore a backpack and glasses, and he ever so often adjusted his ear buds as he scrolled through a menu on his phone. But just as we stopped singing, he took off his headphones and burst into the rest of “Be Our Guest,” complete with the accent of the character and a dramatic dance of the eyebrows. My friends and I only stared, until he finished the very last line and we applauded. In response he said, in a somewhat choked up voice “I’m sorry, it was just such…a beautiful…show!!!” He turned away again, put his ear buds back in, and resumed his scrolling.

Random people, little experiences, short hiccups and heart beats of the city. Freckles on the blushing face of San Francisco, not always visible but noticeable if you take the time to look. I’ve come to worship them, to hope in the moments before I walk out my door that there is some short story to mark the passage of another day. I’m sure one day I’ll walk straight into a future character of one of my novels, and he’ll charm me as all of these people (and pets) have done. It would be sad to think in a city of so many people, our lives don’t intersect every once and a while.  Because even strangers have the power to touch our lives in big ways.

Just as it takes many colorful houses to distinguish a hill, it takes seeking out many lively personalities to brighten a life. Even if that means venturing out without knowing whom you’ll encounter along the way. Those are the experiences the most worth singing and dancing about—those are the beautiful shows of humanity. So find the twitching statue and sleeping leaping dancers and the Italian immigrant and the local dog and the Disney singer. Every life needs a sprinkle of eccentricity.