Two Cities

I have never been a huge fan of San Francisco. 

Now, before you bite my head off, I have a confession to make: after today, I think that that San Fran has actually wheedled its way to a higher place in my estimation. [Don't worry Seattle, the Fog City will never replace you in my heart]. 

Maybe the reason San Francisco doesn't seem quite as bad after all is that today reminded me, just a tad, of being in Istanbul. I guess that maybe I'm just missing living in a big city -- observing and being part of the hodgepodge of grit and glitter, the interdependence of comings and goings, the coexisting entrepreneur spirit and dark desperation in an eclectic group of people thrown together in an idiosyncratic place. Anyways, there's a lot about Istanbul to miss. 

But back to San Francisco. How could I not be won over, even just a little, by display cases of plastic sushi and kitschy trainer-chopsticks, or bookshops of used cookbooks and hip new fiction picks all crammed side by side like tea biscuits just waiting to be bitten into? How could I not but be delighted by the sheer variety of tapiocas and rice and noodles and unidentifiables on the shelves in a lively Asian market, or by the standout façades of Edwardian-era San Franciscan homes as we walked briskly along the sidewalks in the chilly fog? 

No offense to Ghirardelli Square, but I would much rather (as we did today) wander around in ridiculous junk shops, or get distracted by beautiful book spines and autobiographies of women from Tsarist Russia, or nibble at gooey green-tea-flavored red-bean mochi, or meander around an area where people have a hard time speaking English, than spend all my time in a place where the offbeat beautiful has been stamped out by the tourist industry. Hence why I found it so special this afternoon to see San Francisco in a snapshot of what our hostess adores about her city...the quintessential eats, quirky treats, and daily activity, mundane and otherwise, of one particular neighborhood. 

I was most thrilled when our hostess took us to one of her favorite haunts, a mini market of Middle Eastern and European foods -- shelves of tea and preserves, candy with Arabic on the wrappers, trays of baklava, bowls of hummus and feta cheese in a refrigerated glass case. I thought of the spice bazaar in Istanbul, all the heaps of dried fruit and lokum and the bustling activity and vociferous vendors...and my heart ached to be back there. We bought pita bread and pistachio halva and manti (a Turkish meat-filled mini pillow tortellini of sorts, to be served with yogurt), and I must have appeared very enthusiastic about everything because the Guatemalan clerk handed me a piece of rosewater Turkish delight for me to enjoy as I wandered around trying to find everything with Turkish labels. 

Even after we'd left the shop my thoughts stayed with Istanbul, but I was grateful -- grateful, in particular, that our hostess knew what it's like to miss a city you love, and that she'd brought us to a place that felt almost familiar to me. 

I'll hand it to you, San Francisco, today was an unexpectedly delightful foray into the recognizable and relatable, the outrageous and outré...a brief but hearty savoring of memories and familiar flavors, but also a chance to find my own impressions of offbeat beauty in you.

Golden

There have been occasions in the past when, surrounded by a group of people whom I know fairly well, I have found myself envisaging each of them as particular colors, as if the very essence of their souls or selves could be distilled into character-revealing, unadulterated hues -- visible manifestations -- and examined in transparent flasks. My visualizations go something as follows: his color would be a deep shade of eggplant, full of depth and complexity, a bit hard to penetrate with the eye...kind of like looking through a wine bottle in an underlit room. His color is rich and robust, like his conversation and silence and emotion and wisdom. Her color is the green of split-pea soup -- it is always difficult for one to decide whether it is enjoyable and savory or not. In her color is something a bit disagreeable and unstable, yet fascinating... And so on, with quite a bit more detail and nuance. 

Usually, I would eventually come to wonder what my “color” would be. What would it say about me to my examiner? 

This all might sound quite strange and foolish, but I actually find it a helpful exercise. 

Because I know exactly what color I would want to be, but am simultaneously aware that if I were reduced to a shade reflective of my true self, there would be something contaminated about that color, something corrupted and turbid. 

Many times in my life I have driven past healthy introspection and humility right down into a valley of self-loathing, a place that also happens to be populated by pride and lies. On my own, I try to fix the damages, make changes to the surface and the interior. When that doesn’t work, I try to carry the burden of my car-wreck back out of the ravine -- but that, too, proves unsuccessful. 

Until I allow someone to help me carry it.

I find myself increasingly thankful for those people who tell me, in honest and excruciating love, the things I know to be true but am not courageous enough to admit to myself, or admit to God.

It can be unpleasant to see your own color. 

But there is great joy in knowing that you really are loved, loved so much by someone that they will drag the ickiest part of your soul kicking and screaming out of the dark and into a blinding light. This is in no way pleasant until the exposure is over (which, perhaps, it never really is), and you find yourself luminous again. Less...icky. 

I have found life-giving freedom in a truth: the truth that though I cannot purify myself by my own willpower or self-disparagement, there is someone who can radically refine me, develop me into a radiant soul reflective of that someone much brighter, much purer -- someone truly and forever terrifyingly lovely to behold. 

Americano

Maybe I was just in a particularly good mood after a full night of sleep, a couple of hours reading Miroslav Volf out in the sunshine by the lake, a couple more hours in the gym, and creating (and enjoying) my own drinking chocolate concoction when I got to work, but I felt especially talkative when one customer in his twenties or thirties came up to the counter with a kind smile on his face. When he asked me how my day was going he probably didn't expect for me to talk about how strange the seaweed salad I'd tried for lunch was, or how I'd thought it looked like it was composed of torpid, tiny creatures from Monsters, Inc. I wondered if the Pixar reference made me sound like a six year old. 
He couldn't decide if it would be better to get an Americano or a coffee before work, because they were the same price. He asked me what I would get (why do people ever ask those kind of questions?!). I would never have either, so I told him I would definitely choose an Americano. 

While I ran the espresso machine we kept chatting. He was rather nice. He left me a tip and strolled out the door.

I stared out the store's front window and fantasized that he would come back tomorrow. And the following day... And pretty soon he'd discover that he'd been spending too much money on coffee... Because he'd wanted to keep talking to Seaweed Girl. And in my fantasy, imagined Seaweed Girl looked a lot more like Zooey Deschanel than real-life Seaweed Girl actually looks. 

Near the end of my workday when I was outside winding a bike lock around the outdoor seating, I caught sight of him down the sidewalk. Fickly, I'd forgotten about my fantasy. I fiddled with the cushions. He didn't look over at me. A girl drove up in an ugly car and he hopped in and off they went. I realized that I was narrating my own quasi-dissapointment in third person. 

The average day doesn't usually transpire with chick-flick flair, even if you try to mentally construct it. 

The average day is...average. 

But sometimes I enjoy the average days, even as little hiatuses from all the intense and profound days, because it is during the average days that I laugh at myself the most.