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Note: This essay is written in chronological order but not necessarily in succession.
Today is the day that I will yank my duffel bags from the trunk of my mother’s white car. I will return to the home of my childhood, which I have escaped for a measly six and a half weeks. Today I have returned from cool breezes and fire sirens to sweltering heat and chirping crickets. It all happened so quickly. Too quickly to process now, but I will spend the next few weeks in isolation, mourning my loss. No one will know I have come back until I am forced to reenter the school population.
Today is the day that I will look for a new book. I don’t know what I am looking for, only that I’ll know it when I see it. I pick up a few, leaf through the pages, and return them to the shelves, only to be loved by another. As I gaze that the shelves, something catches my eye, a designer’s diamond in the rough. Some smart man or woman has designed the spines of these books to connect together, creating a wonderful little mural on the shelf. Today is the day I will purchase the book that will change my life. I take it home and it engulfs me, filling me with images of my beloved city.
Today is the day that my mission begins. I will move into my temporary home, on the fourth floor of a building tucked into the shadows on Sutter Street. The only part of this building poking out onto the street is its unassuming glass door, which opens using a magnetic key lock, which I possess. I will entertain my family for the weekend, taking them on endless walks around the city, much to their delight. I will say goodbye to them and watch them drive south, back to the stifling valley. And then, when I am sure they are gone, I will begin the search.
I am living at the bottom of what is called the Nob Hill District of San Francisco. Every morning, I walk half a mile straight uphill to eat breakfast in the communal dining hall for the university I am attending. After breakfast, I walk another 3 miles to class, which I attend for 5 hours, every day but Wednesday and Friday. At the end of the day, I walk or catch a bus back to my hole-in-the-wall four-resident dorm room.
One of the few items I have brought with me on my final foray to the Bay is the novel Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin. It follows Mary Ann, a quiet southern receptionist who runs away to San Francisco to find herself. She moves to Barbary Lane where she meets a bunch of long time city residents and goes on adventures, like many an on-paper heroine is prone to do. There are seven books in Maupin’s classic collection, each full to the brim with secret city landmarks, something only the locals would know or appreciate.
Today is the day that I will find Grace Cathedral, where Mary Ann’s friend Burke Andrew was initiated into a cult in the high rafters. It is the closest landmark from my room, only three blocks uphill and one block over. As I walk up the street on my way, it appears that the sidewalk is instead a wall, barring my path, and I am walking at almost a 45-degree angle. Finally, the hill gives up trying to stop me and plateaus, affording a (breathless) view of the cathedral to the left and Huntington Park on the right. The cathedral stands facing the west, its iconic rose window soaking in the bright sunlight.
I will push open the huge wooden doors under the stained glass and slip into the church unnoticed. Just inside the doors, tucked into the wall to the left is a small unassuming door, just like the one Mary Ann and Burke found, which hid a key controlled elevator to the bell tower, where they spied an old-world cult practicing a cannibalistic ritual. The door is locked, just as was expected, I think slyly. I walk down the center of the church, trying to move with catlike silence, but the stone floors are trained to give me away. The pews are empty and so I walk up the center aisle, my head craned back to catch a glimpse of the catwalk high in the rafters that ends in a large round platform. I cannot see very high and the ceiling is dark, but I know that up there is where Burke remembers being led by the cult to witness his first cannibalistic ceremony, before he blacked out and lost his memory, of course. The rest of the cathedral is interesting, but I have found what I came here for. My book is real, and now I have proof.
Today is the day that I will find my dream home. I have done the research and mapped my route. I will walk the cobblestones that Mary Ann has walked, and find the house on Barbary Lane, owned by Mrs. Madrigal and rented out to Michael Tolliver, Mona Ramsey, and Mary Ann herself. I will meet the neighbors and ask them if they know that they live on the greatest street in the history of literature.
In reality, the street is called Macondray Lane. It runs for only a block, between Jones and Taylor, just south of Union. I walked past the entrance to it no less than five times before I found it, all the while getting more and more frustrated. The lane is hidden by massive trees that must have been growing since the Great Fire. The only sign of life past the greenery was a set of two small wooden stairs, leading off the sidewalk into the trees. As soon as I stepped underneath the natural archway onto the cobblestones, my frustration was wiped away. It was a portal to another world, one where houses were expansive and had patches of grass and shade from the sun and wind. On one side was a row of houses, a mish mash of different styles and periods. On the other side was what looked like a neighborhood garden with flowerbeds, grass, and a large koi pond. Past that was a steep hillside, covered in decades of ivy growth.
Only two houses were stationed on the garden side, at the very end of the lane. One, which I am sure is where Mary Ann and her friends resided, is behind an ivy-covered gate. It is large and white, with a small green lawn jutting out front. The last house is made solely of dark wood and is literally perched on the side of the hill. Its only connections to the ground are its long wooden stilt legs, and a steep winding wooden staircase.
I walked down the lane with increasingly starry eyes, soaking in the beauty of the hidden gem. Everything was novel to me. The stones had moss and tiny flowers growing between them, and the flowers and bushes were tended but not restrained, frequently growing into the path. The houses were radiating character, and I wanted to soak it all up. Through the trees I could see the piers and the bay. From this point, the rest of the city sloped out and away, giving these quaint houses the most glorious view. I was so engulfed in the sights and sounds, that I did not notice the drop-off until I was standing on it.
I had not realized, but the end of the lane, where it meets Taylor Street, is more than two stories from street level. It ends in a sheer cliff, with only a skinny wooden staircase to aid your descent. The stairs were anchored to the face of the cliff with big iron staples that still allowed them to sway in the wind. There were four platforms where the stairs changed direction that you could use to allow another person to pass by you in the opposite direction.
It was evening when I had finished exploring my future neighborhood and finally descended the “death stairs” at the end of the lane. Once I had finished kissing the ground and thanking God for my safe return to earth, I sat on a stoop across the street, watching my future neighbors return from work or shopping and make the arduous journey up Mount Macondray and into the trees at the top.
Today is the day that I finish packing all of my personal belongings into duffel bags and portfolio sleeves. I stack everything near the door, ready for my dad to help me lug it out to my mother’s car. This is the second day I will spend saying goodbye to my city. I won’t be falling asleep to the sound of sirens, and I won’t be walking sleepily through the steamy morning streets. Everything will go back into the room that I share with no one, and I will eat breakfast under the same roof that I slept under. I won’t have to pay to wash my clothes and I won’t need bus fare anymore.
It may seem that life was better for me when I returned home. One would imagine that not collecting quarters for laundry is a good thing. One would not be mistaken in thinking this, unless one was myself. I would gladly collect all the quarters in the world, carry my dirty laundry down five flights of stairs, and take my naps on top of a running washing machine, if I could only have the opportunity to walk up that hill one more time. If only I could step on those cobblestones once more. I would gladly take the bus for the rest of my life if I could only curl up on the porch of one of those quaint little houses and wait for the residents to adopt me, out of the kindness of their own hearts.
Yes, it is true. I was desperate to life in the city. But I could not settle for just ANY place, on ANY street. I needed that one. Mary Ann Singleton had only lived on Barbary Lane, and I would not settle for anything less. I belonged there, on Macondray Lane, at the top of the biggest hill in the city. Outside my window BELONGED a gorgeous view of the bay. And you know what? I deserved it.
I visited my future neighborhood no less than once a week, sometimes twice, while I lived there. I took anyone I could there, to my secret dream. My friends, family, anyone who would allow themselves to be drug up the steep hill, where there seemed to be nothing to see. And when they arrived, I was only ever disappointed. There were not stars in their eyes, like mine. They did not practically drool over every cobblestone, as I did. They were not even giddy with anticipation as I led them stealthily up the hill, to secret surprise at the top. They didn’t deserve it, like I did.
Today is the day that I will pack my school things in my bag. I will choke down an early morning breakfast and pull on some sort of clothing. I will groggily trudge out to my car; allow the engine to warm up as I load my bag into the back seat. Today is one of many days that I will engage in parking wars, arriving an hour early for not even the best spot. I will go to class, I will eat lunch, I will return to my car, and I will go home. Home to free laundry and self-cooked meals and grocery shopping. But maybe…
Maybe tomorrow will be the day that I sneak my whole life into the backseat of my car. Maybe it will be the day that I steal all the way up the state, to find myself a home on Macondray Lane. Maybe tomorrow will be the day that my dream will become a reality.
Maybe that will be tomorrow. Or maybe next week, possibly next year, hopefully in a few years, or maybe a decade. Maybe that day will come in 15 years, or 20. all I know is…
Today is the day that none of that happens. Today is the day that I go to school, work, home, bed. Today is not the day that my dreams come true. Today is everything but that day.
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