My Tales of the City

(As a reward for holding out on me, here is a lengthy essay I wrote for class that got critiqued by my peers. I would really appreciate more critique from you, the blog reader. I am hoping that I will be able to use this piece as my final reading essay, so any thoughts would be helpful!)

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.

About my (unintentional) Leave of Absence

The blog posts dried up two weeks ago when my poor computer went into the shop. These last few weeks have been full of confusion and heart ache at not having my beloved computer. I am sure that you, lone reader, have suffered the same heart ache at not getting my blog posts for the last two weeks (haha), so I am here to tell you that I am BACK IN BUSINESS!

Free Fallin'

Link

She's a good girl, loves her mama
Loves Jesus and America too
She's a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis
Loves horses and her boyfriend too

-Free Fallin' by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers-

            When I was in elementary school, my mom had the coolest job. My mother has been lots of things, and it has become easier to just state what she has not been, if anyone were to ask. But when I was young, she worked with my grandmother at the County Fair. For a while she co-managed a building with my grandmother, then went on to “own” a building of her own. The Wine and Roses building, it was called.

            The building itself was huge. I remember it being as long as a football field and twice as wide. It had at least four heavy duty industrial roll-up doors, one on each side. In the middle was a large gazebo that would sell wine by the glass to Fair patrons. The gazebo had a huge long pond running lengthwise down the building on one side.

            To be completely honest, I don’t remember much about the building except being there before the Fair began or being stationed with my homework in the large corner office during the season. The building wasn’t around for very long until it was torn down to make room for a large public grass area, and my mother’s building was moved to another location. Now when I look back, the only experience I remember with complete clarity happened during the set-up period, before the Fair opened.

            My mother would drive straight into the building during set-up, which I always thought was the coolest thing. At the time, she drove a 1991 dark blue Ford F150 with only 3 seats. In the late fall, the air conditioning was faulty and the weather was hot and sticky, so most of the time the windows were rolled down. After only a few years, the foam in the seats was already crunchy and the upholstery, originally a dark blue velvet material, was bleached white in some places. Every time we thumped down on the seats, a cloud of dust would poof into the air, and sneezing would ensue.

            By the time of my memory, the truck had been MODERNIZED! It had a new stereo system that included a 6-CD changer! The CD changer was behind the bench seats, which I have still not figured out how to work. It took colored plastic cartridges that held all 6 of the disks. The only problem with the new amazing CD player was, there was no way you could switch out the CDs for new ones while you were on the road. After a while, we just left the CDs in there, and got used to it.

            One of the CDs left in that silly cartridge was Tom Petty’s Full Moon Fever, with the song Free Fallin’ on it. one of those hot fall days, my mother drove her old truck into the building and left me to my own devices while she did…whatever needed to be done out there. She (blessedly) left the keys in the truck for me to listen to some music while I waited. To no one’s surprise, I began listening to Free Fallin’, which had quickly become my favorite song of the moment.

Mom ended up hanging out at the Fair for about 2 hours, and I spent that whole time lying across the crunchy, dusty bench seats. Every time I heard the final notes of the song, I would reach up into the hot sunny haze to blindly press the << button on the radio, to start the song anew.

Today I heard (not for the first time) a John Mayer cover of Free Fallin’ and was instantly taken back to that afternoon in the truck. With my eyes closed, I created my own Free Fallin’ music video, using scenes I knew all too well: driving down the local freeway, Michael Jackson’s Thriller, riding in a rented two-seater airplane over the city. Now, whichever version I happen to hear, I play back those scenes and remember the hot dusty afternoon at the Fair.

The Tree

 

(not the actual Tree)

When I was little, my friend and I played every day. We would run through my horse pasture miles and miles, (actually less than 2 acres) until we reached the Tree. Later we found out it was only a fig tree, although it only grew one fig, which was promptly plucked, examined, studied, thrown around, and probably eventually eaten by the unwelcome cows that grazed there sometimes.

            A long time before me, the Tree had split in half. It had a deep crack down into the core of the earth, miles and miles until you could see the magma and feel its heat. Or it ended in the dirt and became the forbidden home of many an unknown species of spider. Either way, it was cracked just down the middle, being the “Y” to our YMCA.

            On either side of the splintered Tree crack grew two new stumps, each which grew two huge stumps a short distance from its source. One side of the Tree repelled us, its branches growing upward, slippery and difficult to climb. The other side, its first huge branch grew horizontally, 3 feet from the ground, with cracks making tic-tac-toe squares on its upward facing surface. The second branch grew and branched up, making so many lookout perches for us.

            We would run at the speed of light through the tall, horse-mowed grass, down and up again through the dry creek-bed, at full speed to the Tree. The horizontal branch was the control center, the lookouts just that, watching for intruders: Nazi submarines (AKA: Lassie the cow), Russian spy planes (Fotah and Burgundy the horses), or The Law (my parents).

            We plucked the leaves from the Tree and used the white sticky sap to play tic-tac-toe or write secret notes, or swiftly disappearing mission logs. We used the sap to glue leaves together, to the Tree, to ourselves. The broad fig leaves were everything: dinner plates, hats, little servant followers under our dictator regimes.

            Our fig Tree had, growing out of its head, a million billion vine-like branches extended out over the dry creek bed, low enough to leap, reach, grab, and swing. We were Tarzan, yelling wild girls swinging and tumbling through the rainforest. One vine-branch in particular had a certain shape, like a sideways “J” that was the perfect horse saddle. It bounced with such elasticity, and never ever broke.

            A few years later, when I was about 8 or 9, I had finally fallen short of my friend. She, right there in her front yard, had a tall evergreen tree of some kind that was absolutely perfect for practice climbing. My scrawny, scrambling legs could no longer keep up with her on our Tree, or any other for that matter. Soon she was on top of that other, forbidding half of the Tree, looking down on me with smug satisfaction.

            While she was up in the sky, laughing at the birds in the sky and the silly animals on the ground, I found my place, tucked in a nook in the branches with a book. And here was the crack down the middle of our lives. I would forever be the bookworm, the studier, the sedentary one. She did all the sports, ran the playground every day, and played with all the kids. She was rambunctious and I was somber. She wanted to run around and do things, and I wanted to direct her action.

            She was my yang and I was her yin. And our Tree was our Everything.

 

(photos from here and here)

The Day After

            I am sure it comes as no surprise to anyone that yesterday was Valentine’s Day. I often wonder what other people do on Valentine’s Day, since historically, I have spent the majority of the day at either school or work. I used to imagine that, like the prom queens of yesteryear, all activities stopped for adults on Valentine’s Day so that things like manicures and hair stylings could occur. However, just like the girls in high school got a week’s suspension for ditching on prom day, skipping out on life is not acceptable on V-Day. Oh well.

            This V-Day was the third (consecutive) one that I have spent with C, in one form or another. I was reminded that we were so lucky to have only started dating AFTER Valentine’s Day that first (fateful) year. He says he was lucky because he did not have to spend big bucks on some girl he barely knew. Secretly, I say I am lucky because if he had not recognized that first, hypothetical Valentine’s, we probably would not have made it as far as we have. Such is the vanity of women.

            Since the very beginning, we decided to tone down Valentine’s Day in an effort to save money for our anniversary, which falls less than a month from V-Day. So far, this has worked well for us, since usually we decide to just have a nice “play house” date where one of us cooks for the other. The cooking-in tradition actually started at the very first Valentine’s Day, where all dials were set to MAX on the impression meter.

            The first V-Day, 11 months after our first date, was on a school day. I woke up early to eat breakfast, only to find a huge red heart Mylar balloon outside my front door. “I LOVE YOU!!” it proclaimed! Already elated, I left for school in hopes of seeing my love before class. Behold! He is early to campus, ready to greet me with a bunch of roses, and a kiss of course! We spent the rest of the day planning a special night, possibly at a nice restaurant, then maybe a popular movie. Everything was set by the time lunch period was over, and I was so excited. But it was no to be. During the last period, I got monstrously sick and had to go home early. After that, I was not allowed to go out on my perfect date. 

            Later that evening, while I was camped out on the living room couch, there was a knock on the front door. And who could it be? But my love, bearing gifts! In spite of my illness, he had brought me wonderful soup and his wonderful company. All was not lost after all. A few days later, I received the only gift I have ever asked for for Valentine’s Day from him: a HUGE teddy bear which I promptly named Toby, after the Basset Hound in Disney’s The Great Mouse Detective. It was a V-Day to remember. 

 

            By the second Valentine’s Day that we spent together began to fall into a routine. I decided to cook, and being myself, I planned the entire meal way ahead of time. I found the entire meal recipe online (here), including a shopping list and a prep schedule. It was a plan after my own heart. Everything went well, and for the first time, I cooked meat! I am told that it was one of the best things I have every cooked for C, and even I can assure you, it was so good; I ate the whole thing (something that is rarely true, especially of red meat). C rented a movie that night called Love Story, which has the famous line “Love means never having to say you’re sorry”. I can also say that, for an old(ish) movie, I enjoyed it greatly. And so, a tradition of comfort and conservativeness is established.

            This year, not much was different. Both C and I worked in the morning, I from 9-5 and he from 11-4. By the time he would come over (too cook for me, for a change!) I was, in a word, exhausted. He assured me that cooking what he had in mind would take at least an hour, so I holed myself up in the bathroom for a long hot bath and the proceeding beauty rituals. Finally, with legs shaved, hair curled, and dress (self-) zipped, I emerged to find the kitchen alive with smells. He had prepared fettuccini with cream sauce and pepper shrimp. After dinner, he served my favorite dessert, yellow cake with chocolate frosting, cut into little hearts for the occasion. During dinner, we decided to see a (very) late movie, so to kill time, we watched one of my favorite new movies, Away We Go. Later, we headed off to see The Eagle in the theaters, returning home quite late.

            I am so happy to be able to spend my Valentine’s Day with my love. I have heard a lot over the last few weeks on whether people love or hate the holiday. I hate to gloat over the special things we did yesterday, but in all actuality, it was just like any other date we could go on. It just happened to be on a day where the ENTIRE rest of the world wanted to go out also. Either way, it was a special time for both C and I, especially since yesterday is really the only day one of us will cook a decent homemade meal for the other for the next year.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

(photos from here, here, here, here, and here)