I applaud myself that it was one of the best-timed things I have ever done in my life -- to get off of a plane from LA and walk directly to meet up with friends off of a plane from Portland, just a few gates over. If I could have drawn it on a map, it would have been even more perfect -- to draw tiny little planes, and then the curvy lines with one going from Portland and one going from LA just to meet simultaneously in Oakland. OK, I'm getting carried away.
But I think the symmetry ended right there because the friends were four tall white guys and there I was, feeling more Asian, female, and petite than I usually do. Of course, those 3 characteristics are simply what I am, but my imagination generally convinces me that I inhabit all kinds of personalities. These guys didn't exactly want to talk about Manolos and the upcoming Neiman's First Call sale, so I felt a little underwhelmed in the conversation department. But I made a few compulsory jokes about getting drunk quickly and changing into something sluttier, and the tension quickly subsided.
So what does a girl need for a good Friday night with strangers in a foreign town? You get some cheap red wine, the kind that is sold in a jug and is passable, at best, as swill; you fill up your cup and never look back; and you call in your law school friend who'll be backup. I don't remember eating much over the weekend or being able to hold food down. I remember drinking bad wine and good vodka. I remember trying to dance uninhibitedly on tables in spite of my friend's apparent embarrassment. I remember the satisfaction of being a girl and being able to flounce down the street in heels. I remember seeing a Prius on the road and flashing a smile at the driver for his fine ecological consciousness. I remember cute guys, personable company, and wanting to take pictures to memorialize it all. Sometimes, it is so simple to have a good night.
Saturday brought all the best that San Francisco had to offer. Anticipating a hangover that never came, I asked Duke to take me someplace where I could have a bowl of pho. We ended up at a very clean joint named Chik-N-Doodle Do or something. I would expect nothing less harmonious from my fellow Asians. The afternoon brought on all kinds of lovely stimuli... the heady aroma of espresso roast when we were in the Italian district... the sting of the San Francisco wind on my skin as we waited for mass transit... and even the saltiness of the air when we took pictures by the Golden Gate bridge. There was the easiness of old friends and lively conversation, and flippant jokes that made me laugh so much I felt it viscerally.
And then I had to contend with fucking mass transit again. The peculiar paranoia of being amidst teenagers dressed in suspiciously baggy clothing, the disorientation of not being alert enough to understand whatever was being muttered on the intercom. Acting like a Republican princess and clutching my pink calfskin Marc Jacobs territorially to myself. I would have never expected that braving the elements to get back to Berkeley to meet up with the party would only yield the reward of a McDonald's double cheeseburger. And so the Saturday night ended rather unceremoniously.
It is certainly worth mentioning that the hotel we stayed at had one of the most novel approaches to customer service that I had ever encountered, and I've stayed at some pits. When I asked for an extra towel (singular), the concierge deadpanned that I should go buy one at Walgreen's at the corner. When I asked for an extra pillow (just one would be fine), I was told that I could possibly get one in the morning. Oh, sure, bitch, hand it to me as I'm checking the hell out!
The thing with goodbyes is that they are either the most heartwrenching or the most insipid things ever. I always remember the time I was with Jose at Heathrow and, after running through all hell in London so we could make our planes, we sort of gave each other a high-five and headed our separate ways. Maybe I'll remember Sunday morning in San Francisco the same way. Kind of staring at each other and shrugging a goodbye. We all wished each other safe flights. See you at the next good party.
And then it was back to the city. I remember taking a note during brunch that chervil in a Hollandaise sauce was pretty damn effective. I remember appreciating my coffee if only because I liked the white cup it was served in. I remember telling stories with gusto. I remember marveling at the paper screen doors in Pete's room, the crisp sheets, and the abundance of towels and pillows. I remember the kindness of old friends and new alike.
Back home, I retold it all half-awake, half-alive. I remembered the characters of my weekend as if they were part of some grand comic strip. And, like the mystery man on the train, I wondered when I would see them again.
posted by Lucy Sloan @ 10:25 PM
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