Willows and Wishes

A birthday is a strange day. Most magical days come when unexpected, and the morning of one feels no different. But from the very first disgruntled sigh and ray of morning sun, a birthday is marked as special. Whatever ensues, a birthday will go down in memory tainted in a different color, held to a higher expectation and remembered with heightened awareness. This year my birthday fell on a school day, and so I arose dutifully. The day began in its quiet, understated way. Like the murmurs of a stage before a play, as the groggy audience of one I heard only the last minute hushed whispers of a crew whisking around the edges.

Throughout the day I was given not just gifts, but reminders of the greater gift I bask in every day. My roommate baked me cookies and posted “Happy B-Day” in sticky notes above my bed. My friends shuffled suspiciously into my room only to reveal a pack of doughnuts and homemade cards. One card was a collage of our best pictures, and I was moved to think that so many lovely moments represent my time here. The other was comprised of makeshift lyrics to songs, the most notable being Sound of Music’s “I feel nineteen, going on twenty…” and Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ changed to ‘Young and sweet only nineteen…”

As usual I went to work in my student assistant position in the MFA in Writing department. I am constantly reminded that I have the best bosses in the world, as I am not only surrounded by the loud and constant eccentricity of writers but their underlying deeply rooted kindness. It is a high concentration rare to find in one person, let alone diffused throughout a whole department. When my bosses inquired as to whether I would have cake on my birthday and discovered I had had none, they were shocked. They declared that I must have cake, and I was promptly ushered into a taxi and to a cake shop to choose whichever I wanted. I had the strange experience of ordering my own name to be iced onto a cake, and attending an impromptu office party in my honor. As if that was not enough, my boss bought me an autographed book by one of my favorite authors. It is surreal to behold such occasions, such catalyst people, such gifts. It is strange to wonder if I deserve it, and to shake my head at each new surprising moment.

Later that night I skyped my family and opened my presents in front of them. They presented me a half-eaten birthday cake and candles I symbolically blew out from across the country. The presiding priest at a school mass sent out a prayer to me, and afterwards I got more hugs than I knew what to do with. When each hug lingered, it felt as though everyone reached out a loving hand at the same time. Shrouded in hugs and hopes and humility, I felt thrust upon the stage of my next year. With such an opening act, I couldn’t help but to wonder at the plot of the play.

I had hinted to my friends that I wanted to go on a celebratory picnic. So they spent all week planning a picnic that I conveniently forgot that I mentioned. So I suffered the usual irritation over hushed conversations and exclusion born from a surprise party, ironic because I myself planted the idea. But with due time all was revealed, and my obliviousness reveled in when we laughed about it together. In the lovely Dolores Park of San Francisco, my friends arranged an artful assortment of goodies around a grand centerpiece of a chocolate toffee cake. One had traveled to the Ferry building to buy farmers market bread and cheese. Another had made homemade punch, sandwiches, and a fruit salad. I was greeted by a small pot of flowers and a playlist of my favorite songs.

We sat underneath a beautiful willow tree, swinging lethargically around us as though it too was listening to the music. The sun peaked its way around the trunk, too shy to join our party but too curious to avert his glance. The park was packed—one would think a fair happened somewhere in its midst, but just the gathering of typical San Franciscans ever appreciative of a nice day. We watched tight-ropers and a gang of hoola-hoop enthusiasts set up in the park. A band strummed away U2 covers and as the day went on more and more passerby circled around to watch. When a man with a pet iguana sat down near us, we eagerly asked if we could pet the curious-looking creature. The man not only let us pet the iguana, but placed him on each of our shoulders.

People who walked by remarked about our set up and wished me happy birthday. When it came time to sing happy birthday, a couple sitting near us helped us light the candles and we afterwards gave them each a piece of cake. An older man sitting higher up the hill offered us birthday pot, to which we only laughed nervously.

When the time came to go, I walked behind my friends, laughing as we all three limped with our loads. It was a beautiful image, seeing them walking with their summer dresses billowing behind them and their picnic bags hoisted determinedly to their sides. They did not even know that I watched them in such an appreciative manner, full of awe at the two people who single-handedly supply me more than my fair share of happiness. On the bus back we all leaned on each other, stuffed to the brim, exhausted in the most liberating of ways.

A special day indeed. A stage with rose petals strewn across its shining surface. My birthday wish was for a glorious second act, and a sequel to this day next year. If every year has one day of cakes and kindness, willows and wishes, it will be a good life.

Butterflies, Bays, and Beaches

 Spring break. That elusive, stereotyped, sun-draped week of wonder. The teaser for summer, the anticipation junky dream, the step from the dappled light of every day to the full sun of freedom. Mine has not disappointed. My week has been an itinerary of spontaneity, a constant drive for more. My feet touched bridges, boats, trains, tunnels, trails, sand, boardwalks, cable cars. My hands reached for butterflies, flowers, palm trees, bike helmets, sting rays, dresses, lighthouses, railings. Every day I reached farther and farther.

 Day One- Japanese Tea Gardens, Twin Peaks, and Cable Cars

I used to think a girl in a flowing dress running frantically was cliché. Not anymore. This is the constant reality of my life. Sometimes it is an out of body experience, watching myself enact what I’d once glorified. But most of the time I just run and laugh later about how ridiculous I look. The week began running to the Japanese Tea Gardens. I made it through the gates minutes before the free admission period ended. The stress of the run evaporated immediately upon entrance as I surveyed the sweet serenity of the place around me. Everything looked airbrushed, neatly patted into place, painted with the delicacy of an eyelash brush. Fish dotted the ponds in slow, twinkling brushstrokes of color, and I struggled to take in every detail.

Next my friend Maddelyn and I set out for Twin Peaks, one of the greatest scenic outlooks in the city. The bus we took plopped us in the middle of a residential neighborhood with no sign of a trail. My mentality with directions is always to set off in one direction (whether or not it’s the right one). In this case that meant up. So we took the first staircase we could find. The path led us through beautiful, cottage-like homes, underneath large flowering canopies and Spanish colonial rooftops. We reached the top of the staircase and surveyed our surroundings. First calmly, then desperately. Maddelyn and I sucked in our breath at the same time in a movie moment of confusion. We were once again stuck in a residential area. After climbing a characteristically San Franciscan flight of steep steps, it’s a feeling I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

We wandered for a while and eventually found a public footpath. From there it was just more up, up, up. We could see the view from behind the greenery, growing wider and wider. Our feet became the lenses with which we shrunk our world. The top was nothing short of spectacular. Downtown San Francisco popped up like the page of a storybook, the rest of the city expanding outward in waves of hills and houses dotted with hastily applied watercolor. I searched for all of the landmarks I’d visited, all of the skyscrapers I knew. It felt like a giant game of “Where’s Waldo?” renamed “Where’s Hannah been?” I remember thinking, “Huh. So this is what the big picture is.” 

 Later that night, both of us were exhausted. But another friend challenged us to go out and see what we could make of the night. So we barely caught the bus into downtown (running dramatically of course) and we barely caught a cable car leaving from downtown to Fisherman’s Wharf. We didn’t expect much but a scenic nighttime ride. While on the cable car we met two exhausted tourists. They shared that after one hill too many, the only thing they wanted to do in the city was drink. After we’d continued the polite conversation, they offered each of us what is called a City Pass. We may as well have been handed two golden tickets. Inside the little tourist handbook we found free passes to the biggest museums of the city. Moral of the story—the night always has something up its sleeve.

Day Two- Academy of Science and Legion of Honor

With our city passes in hand, day two started out with the Academy of Science. The museum is organized into an underground aquarium, an earthquake simulation, and two big domes. We saw a show in the first dome, the largest digital planetarium in the nation. The second dome was a representation of the Amazon’s canopy layers, complete with the sound of fluttering birds and butterflies never far away. I laughed when the elevator attendant asked all leaving the dome to “Check yourself for butterflies!” I had a different kind, born in my stomach from the excitement of such a day.

We then went to the Legion of Honor art museum to see the visiting Brooklyn Fashion collection. There is nothing like the desire of a girl for the exquisite, unfathomable elegance of another time. Regardless of what one wears, one will always yearn for the fabric inches away, and the resonating feeling the simple caress of a dress can evoke. I laughed at a designer dress splattered with a butterfly pattern. I dreamed of wearing the dress back to the dome of butterflies, of being one of their own.

Day Three and Four—Benecia, CA

My first trip out of San Francisco was to the quaint little town of Benecia to visit a family friend of Maddelyn’s. I overslept and amidst the chaos of my own creation (involving the tornado of thrown clothing and the vicious breakfast throat stuffing) I forgot to be excited. It hit me as we were running to the ferry building. We needed a gift for our hostess, and we hastily stopped ourselves at a flower stand to buy daffodils. I was then a girl running in a flowing dress holding flowers, about to catch a ferry on a beautiful day. My cheesy smile outlasted everyone else on the ferry. Even with the wind and the spray of the water plotting against me, I stayed leaning over the side. I didn’t sit down until the city was out of sight, waving as though bidding goodbye to my one true love.

In Benecia I met our hostess, a delightful woman named Sheila. We were mom’d for the length of our stay, bombarded with snacks and home-cooked meals and stories and dinner time prayers. To my delight, I was also bombarded with wet dog kisses. She had two poodles and a long-haired shepherd mix, in addition to a vocal, constantly puzzled cat and a attention-seeking canary. There is nothing so soothing to the soul as gathering in the kitchen to talk, animals swarming around my feet, cooking dinner as the sun sets over California palm trees. Amidst tendrils of steam and light, I could only describe the sensation as warm.

The first day Maddelyn and I strolled in and out of blooming white cherry blossom trees on the main street of the town, peeking into antique store after antique store. We were drawn into one by the promise of old dance music cooing down a hallway. We began to dance in the doorway, and when spotted by the owner he ushered us in.

That night I spent pinned under that behemoth of a dog, and then awakened to the promise of fresh fruit and bikes on the back patio. We rode into a California state park, parked our bikes and strolled by the shore. Later Sheila dropped us off at our stop and I said my first goodbye at a train station. It was more of a hopeful “Until we meet again.”

Back in San Francisco we wandered through Fisherman’s Wharf as the sun set. The bridge was but a faint etching in the background, and the boats danced like the silhouettes of people. My heart was calm like the distant ocean yet gushing like the crash of waves underneath my feet. I watched the lights flicker on and listened to the dramatic scramble of seafood vendors. I thought of the people watching from Twin Peaks, but I couldn’t help but to smile at the smaller picture before me.

Day Five- Santa Cruz, CA

In the greatest feat of the break, Maddelyn and I made it to Santa Cruz. After a 6:30 wake up call, a 2-hour train ride and a 45-minute bus ride we finally arrived, hungry for adventure and junk food. We sang Katy Perry’s “California Girls” under our breath on the bus ride there, and in the course of the day I was anointed one.

It is repeatedly amazing to me how something so touristy somehow manages to be classy. How the grease of french fries and the drip of popsicles onto sun-kissed skin turns to magic in the current of memories. Perhaps it is the weaving of the senses, the constant reminder of where I was. All elements of a story I was free to compose as I wished. In cheesy places I find myself doing cheesy things—no running this time, but splashing and dancing and singing. I climbed cliff faces and burst through rock formations into light.

I rode on the Ferris Wheel and the Flying Dutchman and I soared over the ocean adorned with dancing sailing boats. I looked behind me and everyone would’ve looked photo-shopped had it not been for the reflection of the horizon in their eyes, their wind-whipped faces, their fearless smiles. Afterwards I wandered to a nearby lighthouse surrounded by what looked like giant corks. A brave fisherman stood calmly on the very edge, craning his neck to see what awaited him below. I could only look around and above. I stayed until sunset, watching the seagulls fly above me like last minute editions to a cheesy 3D movie. They cast momentary shadows over my face that the sun then readily scribbled back in with warmth.

On the long ride back home the last of the sunscreen wore off and the memories sunk in. Most of my life I’ve had to chase down memories. I’ve done everything in my power to tie them down, to feel them one more time. But these memories stick. Like the wet mark of a dog’s kiss in the moments right afterwards. Like the deeper feeling of sun preserved even as one reenters the shade. Like the internal feeling of butterflies when the heart is given one more environment in which to fly. After so much reaching, something has taken a hold of me. Perhaps spring break was not the only elusive one; perhaps we both finally crashed into each other at the same time. Running in a flowing dress finally got me somewhere.

Ocean Pants

This past weekend the world threw together a tossed salad bowl of delicious moments for me to taste. Any of the ingredients alone would’ve satisfied me, but together I reached pure, salty transcendence. I’m talking 100% concentrated magic to savor and swallow all at once. I recently joined my school’s Outdoors Club and went on a seaside hike. I felt as though I’d been gifted a VIP one-time only guest pass to such a beautiful day. I wondered how often I could gain admittance to this amphitheater of understated glory. 

We began in the Presidio and ended at the Golden Gate Bridge. This was as far as the official group planning had gone. But as alive and bursting college students often to do, the group wanted more. I thought we’d sucked the last sip from the day’s serving of fun. But alas, everyone else knew the secret—the true magic is in the very last drop. So we headed down to the water once more.

Of course the sea is beautiful to watch, like a 3D postcard and Van Gough swirls in action. But I watched everyone around me undergo a transformation. Everyone went from seeing to being.  One can only observe beauty so close at hand for so long without reaching out to touch it. The feeling is as innocent and grand as the act of falling in love. It is as whimsical as reaching into a painting and feeling that world accept you and fold around you. It is as surreal as realizing a dream is a reality you can touch, tangible proof of a lifetime of yearning.

It started when one of my friends in the club wandered near the water. She waded in until the water gently licked her knees; she was trusting, calm, peaceful. I couldn’t say the same of the first big wave that came. It ripped her off of her feet and she fell into the water. We all watched her as she righted herself and readjusted her deformed sports bra, the waves whipping mischievously around her ankles. I will always remember her next reaction, and those of the others around me. She burst out laughing and dived head on back into the water.

Soon more and more members joined her. I ran in hand in hand with two other friends, laughing and screaming as the waves knocked us over like dominos. We took turns helping each other float, tangoing to the siren call of the ocean, cheering others on as they charged into the depths. We danced on nature’s stage, we tasted that last sip on our tongues, we splashed in the wake of our dreams. They kept coming and coming.

As we dried off, we raced each other down the shoreline and kicked up sand. We laughed in the breathless way, the kind that shows the most awe, the deepest appreciation. By the time we left we looked like spotted lizards. The creases in our work out clothing looked like scales, our hair spiraled in hardened spikes, and sand still dotted everything. I could feel the sand in cuts on my lip, under my eyelashes like hastily applied makeup. It dotted my cheeks like freckles, and I wore it like a badge of honor. I found specks of it on my body, in my room, for days afterwards. I smiled at any sign of it.

This week a friend and I finished a big test and we ran into the ocean afterwards. I wore the same pants. I felt the same sticky thrill of a life converging around me. You cannot help but to change after running into the ocean. When you realize the last sip is really as vast and unending as the sea, you must thrust yourself into the postcard, the salad bowl, the taste as often as possible. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. I love wearing signs of a dream come true up and down my sleeves. It is amazing how much hope one can draw from a single day. The world has fed me enough for years.

A Golden Gate Galentine's Day

Some days are so special that I cling to them for days afterwards, like a child would cling to the heavenly warmth of a blanket in the morning. I try to smile the same way in the mirror, or to zoom in on the pictures that captured the exquisite concentrated happiness that so many find in danger of extinction. But alas the pictures blur and pixel, and the smile is but the lingering shadow of an art that can never be recreated. Life’s sprinkled seasoning lands on select days, rendering one perfection and the next but an aftertaste. Still shall we try for one more bite?

I think of Valentine’s Day as an inventory of all the love in one’s life. Yes for some it is a romantic dinner out, for others a couple salty tears absorbed in handfuls of chocolates. But mine was a “Gal”-entine’s day to remember, my best on record. A day to squeal at the heart-shaped arrangement of york mints my room mate left on my bed, to skip arm in arm with one of my best friends (fully aware of our giggles outdoing the couples), to gift handmade cards and receive homegrown hugs. A day to bulge from happiness, not only the chocolate in my stomach.

The day began with coordinating pale pink dresses and hats and smiles. My friend Maddelyn and I set off for a breakfast in Golden Gate park, stopping to fluff our hair and fan out our dresses for an impromptu photo shoot in the gardens. From there we headed to the Mission for dance lessons. We were half way through the first one (some kind of fusion Jazz dance), still loving the nature of our flowing dresses, when the instructor began teaching floor work. So we gulped and still tried to do the dolphin dives, our dresses colored by the little black specks of the floor. We laughed breathlessly when we managed to stand up again without flashing the constantly running video camera. Next was belly dancing, taught by a beautiful Russian woman that put our hips to shame. She passed out waist scarves with coins that caught the shine of the spotlight on the stage. What I didn’t have naturally in skill (which was a lot) I made up for with those coins, each time taking a louder, sassier step forward.

Each step made in the Mission district is like entering a different dimension. We slid from mural to mural, backdrops to the passerby that reflected in expressions in different ways. We happened into two stores that were nothing like they appeared. One, painted like an English cottage on the outside, complete with caged birds and elegant vines, was in fact home to exotic cacti, taxidermy, and the Edgar Allen Poe type of odd. Every corner bulged with bones, horse heads turned unicorn, mice dressed up as cowboys. Next door was 826 Valencia, a nonprofit tutoring agency that was forced to sell a product in order to remain in the building. Of all things to choose, they selected pirate paraphernalia.

Next Maddelyn and I headed to the beach by the Golden Gate Bridge. Hundreds of people swirled about, hand in hand, hearts clear to see in their faces. The city was an open book, each passerby with a story easily revealed. The silhouettes of couples dotted the edge of the gentle waves right as the sky ripped open its seams. The sunset could not have been a greater tribute to the day. The pinks and purples oozed over the beating red of the bridge. My heart wiped everything clean in that moment, just to store that sky. I could feel the photographic quality of the night around me, and I danced into my own memories. Maddelyn and I spread our arms for a silhouette shot, and I could not help but to think of The Notebook line “Say I’m a bird!” But honestly, I couldn’t dream of flying away. It felt as though I’d just landed.

We returned to the school for chocolate and chic flicks. But even movie watching changes after such a day. It changed because for once my day could compete. For once my silhouette marked the horizon of a dream, bursting and brightening the lives of lovers and friends and families and humans for miles and miles. It goes to show happiness is in the air, always ready to hold your hand. Perhaps it is not so much that happiness is going extinct, but that most do not know of its habitat. It is just another dimension you must slip into, just another jingling coin belly dance away. It will not be made accessible by only the chocolate, the movies, even the lover. For me it was opened by a friend, as if she had ripped open the sky herself. But once it’s opened, embraced in its pure form, it takes days to run its profound course. I’m still licking my lips.

“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.