Late January 2018
Today’s somber grey sky matches my mood. Winter hasn’t been overly cold since early December, but it has been grey and rainy.
Typing away at a work-related email. One of many that I will send out that day. I’m totally unsure as to the nature or particulars of the email as lately they’ve all begun to look the same to me. To me the work seems to be a repetition of the same task that I had been doing year in and year out in this home office since 2010.
Pausing to look around at my surroundings. Same desk, same chair, same computer. Same situation.
“I’m so tired” I suddenly whispered to no one in particular.
Driving down the street later that day, to the post office. Sitting at a red light thinking about nothing in particular.
“What’s the point of you anymore? What’s your purpose?”
My hands wrapped round the steering wheel. The light turns green and I drive on without an answer.
Later that evening I turn off my work computer, trudge to my room, turn off the lights and get ready to repeat the whole cycle all over again the next day.
Mid-February. I think
Laying in bed one evening with the tablet on my lap and an earbud in my ear watching a movie. Feeling a bit nostalgic I found “The smartest guys in the room”, a documentary about the fall of Enron.
A bit schadenfreude I guess. The Enron guys that I had dealt with way back when were some of the most arrogant a-holes I’d ever run across in my business life. Hearing about their downfall was somewhat satisfying. The documentary went on to explain how they had screwed the state of California back then.
When the California part of the movie started, they played this song in the background.
California. Sunshine. Where nobody knows your name.
Hmmmmm.
Lying in bed looking up. Time off would be impossible. Things weren’t going well at work and I’d used a ton of time to keep my dad company in December. A weekend trip then. Couple days outside the city.
San Diego again? No. I wanted to see something new. L.A.? Too much like Houston, or so I’d heard. Okay, San Francisco then.
Had my dad ever been to San Francisco? I couldn’t remember. He had lived in L.A. in the early 50s before moving to Chile, but I couldn’t remember if he had been here. I couldn’t remember and I couldn’t very well ask him now. How much more would I forget over time.
“So, what’s holding you back? No more insulin readings to take in the evenings or people to dress in the morning, right?
So next weekend then. Do I tell my boss? Why? He doesn’t own your weekends.”
The next day I inform my mother. We hadn’t had much to discuss since December. We were both coping as well as we knew how to.
“don’t get mugged”
Friday
I booked a flight to San Francisco for Friday. My plan was to land early enough to have a late dinner and some drinks at one of those ritzy San Francisco restaurants that people go on about, tour the city all Saturday, and take an early morning flight back on Sunday. Fool proof. I even went as far as dressing for the trip in my best blue blazer, blue pants and white collared shirt. Looked pretty good, for once.
Now obviously, I didn’t read the itinerary too closely, or I would have known that the flight took off out of Hobby and not George Bush. So midway to one airport I change course and cut through downtown to get to my flight on time. Might as well not have bothered as the flight was cancelled.
The airline rep wanted to toss me a couple bucks and told me to come back Saturday. I said no. She got exasperated and typed and typed. A flight was bound for San Francisco at 8…..at George Bush
I’m sure my eye twitched. I think I heard my teeth grind a bit.
“Thank you, I’ll take it”
With Friday afternoon traffic I might just make it to the gate. The rep gave me a taxi voucher and along with another passenger we hustled off to George Bush.
My co-passenger was a health care professional from San Francisco. She had been in Houston for a week for some sort of health care conference and was going home.
She filled me in on how expensive San Francisco was and how amazingly cheap Houston restaurants were and how she would love to come back and try the micro brew beers once her pregnancy was over (she was pregnant. I didn’t feel it my place to ask about it.)
We got to the airport and parted ways at security. Once on the plane we sat on the tarmac for an hour before taking off. So dinner was obviously out as I would be getting there round 11 at night. In fact, the plane got there nearly at midnight and I had to call the hotel to make sure my reservation wouldn’t be cancelled.
The Pier 2620 hotel which I guess was a pier at one time? I don’t know. They had a lot of corrugated tin decorations and nets and fishing gear on the walls to go with the name. Whatever. I unpacked my one bag and realized I was hungry, so I went out looking for food and found an all-night In N Out burger operating about 3 blocks away.
Surprisingly it was packed, and I finally got my food round 1:30 in the morning (or 3:30 in the morning back home), ate my first “gourmet” meal in San Francisco and then went back to the hotel and fell asleep.
To the edge
Looking at my phone the next morning I found it was surprisingly early. Time difference I suppose.
Time to plan out the trip…
No, I didn’t plan a thing. My knowledge of San Francisco was basically pop culture references and common knowledge. The big bridge, Alcatraz, fisherman’s wharf, the Castro, the streets where the hippies lived, Chinatown, those were the main ones. So let’s see what we can cover.
I changed into to a hoodie, jeans and walking shoes and took off.
Fisherman’s wharf was practically outside the front door of the hotel. Pretty much a tourist trap. The sidewalk vendors were already boiling up a load of crab legs for the hungry tourists that would arrive in a few hours. The seagulls already had some prime rooftops already staked out and watched as lunch was being prepared. I wasn’t in the market for t-shirts or overpriced novelties, so I decided to skip this.
My Uber/Lyft driver (all the drivers seem to use signs for both companies) drove me down to the bridge.
The tour buses hadn’t arrived yet and crowds were still fairly light and mostly milling around the visitor center so other than a few joggers and cyclists getting in some miles that morning I had the bridge to myself.
The bridge itself is surreal. A giant mass of metal and concrete painted bright orange. Somehow it doesn’t seem artificial to me. Somehow it seems to be a part of the landscape that needs to be there and that somehow things wouldn’t look right if it was gone.
The bridge on the edge of the city and the bay. On one side the city, the bay, and life. On the other side the vast cold Pacific.
If you’re there you just must walk it. The car traffic was fairly heavy for a Saturday morning. Other than that, the wind coming off the Pacific provided the only noise. I started my walk north along the bridge. Effectively I was alone with my thoughts.
47, I was 47. Exactly half his age. He had been 47 when I was born. I thought of everything he had done during my life and add to that everything he had already done before I came along.
Two lifetimes, a war, college, two families that he had raised, fortunes won and lost and re-won. A sense of purpose and order, a mission.
Me? I had a mortgage and a job I was tired of. Always plans for the future but none of them coming to fruition. What was it all for anymore? What’s the point of you anymore?
Stopping along the bridge and turning to watch the sun rise over the city. Alcatraz off in the distance; I’m gripping the cold orange rail tightly.
Taking a deep breath. The wind is cold, but the sun is so bright, and the sky is such a clear blue. The water far below is a cold dark blue. Off across the bay the city was waking up ready for a new day. So many people getting on with their lives with their plans, with their purpose.
“I’m so tired”
I stare off at the water between the bridge and Alcatraz for a bit longer before easing my death grip on the rail and continuing down the bridge to the other end.
It took me about 45 minutes to walk across to the northern end of the bridge. The other end has a memorial to sailors and a yacht club on one side and an old abandoned army fort on the other side.
Sitting on the top of the cold concrete fort and looking out towards the endless Pacific.
“You don’t get a choice in this.”
The next few years will probably be a painful mess and there are no promises and there is no plan, but it doesn’t end today.
Is this faith? Is this just me being too stubborn and not knowing when to quit?
The universe, God, or whatever wasn’t providing answers that morning, just a cold offshore breeze. Getting up off the top of the fort I walk back towards the bridge.
I wanted to walk back on the Pacific side of the bridge, but it was only open to cycling traffic on the weekends.
The tour bus crowds had arrived and I pushed my way through the throngs of tourists and back towards the visitor’s center.
I lucked out and caught an Uber/Lyft as it dropped off a couple and told him to take me to the hippies. I didn’t even look back at the bridge.
Love and Haight
So, this was the one-time capital of the counterculture. The Haight evolved from its dingy counterculture roots as a hangout for the lost 60’s generation trying to find itself into a high-end hip neighborhood with the high rents and property values, but it was desperately and earnestly trying to remember what it had once been.
You could walk down the street as I did and see all the trappings of that age. The coffee shops, the book shops, the record shops, the clothes shops all with a psychedelic motif going on.
Lots of shops but really if you were going to exist in the Haight you needed to finance your stay somehow.
Discussions about real estate values and rents seem to permeate every aspect of the city. Everyone from the drivers to the hotel concierge to the girl selling me a seven-dollar plain coffee in the Haight referenced it. Most of the people I saw working that day commuted into the city where the rent was just ludicrous and not outright impossible.
Of course, 50 years ago when this was the counter-culture capital this area was rife with flophouses, communes, and just plain derelict buildings.
But then in the 70s came the cops and right behind them the redevelopers and like many of these quaint old neighborhoods that the locals made into a cool place to live, it was suddenly no longer affordable to them to continue living there. The redevelopers and real estate people just wanted the back story to the place, not the people. A victim of its own success I suppose.
Just for funsies I checked the rents on my phone and found an average of $1,400 per month which didn’t sound that bad till you realized that was for just a bedroom. If you were lucky you got to share a washing machine and a kitchen with the other tenants.
Still I could see the charm of strolling through this area and picking up a book at a bookstore and sitting at a café to while away an afternoon. The Haight is definitely worth a return visit by itself to unpack and delve into more closely.
Chinatown
Usually my drivers are a talky lot. Apart from brusquely telling me to fasten my seat belt this guy was dead silent. Fortunately, Chinatown wasn’t far off.
They celebrate the Lunar new year for two weeks here and the streets were packed to overflowing but you could definitely tell that packed was the norm for these streets.
This was more like what I wanted to see. Not the manicured perfect lawns of the suburbs or a reprocessed gentrified urban neighborhood but the hustle and bustle of a packed city going about its business. Of course, this was also a packaged and well managed view for the sake of tourists but it’s more inline of what I think about when I think a big city.
Houston of course is way bigger, but it’s so spread out and so wide open sometimes it’s hard to see yourself in a big city.
But back to Chinatown the shops were all open the crowds roamed back and forth looking at all the knickknacks and goodies for sale, the cooks in the restaurants were prepping for lunch and the buskers were belting out some traditional Chinese folk music.
Add to that the craziness of lunar new year on top and the scene was frenetic, but it wasn’t claustrophobic or overpowering in any way. I could easily see myself living or working here.
Speaking of lunch, I steered my way through the crowds towards north park and found a Chinese restaurant on the edge of Chinatown to grab a bite. They were only doing to go orders so I walked out with my food and climbed my way up what has to be the steepest street ever and found myself at the base of Coit tower (a local landmark) and had lunch in the little park in front.
The Castro
After lunch I hailed a ride and took off to the Castro and continued my tourist blitz through the city. On my way there I realized that yes everything I was seeing was great but it was just a superficial skim through the city and to really do it justice I would have to spend many more days or more visits to do a deeper dive into what I had seen. Another thing I thought about was that I could not escape the feeling that I would get more out of the trip if I were traveling with someone else and sharing the experience.
The Castro was in some ways like the Haight in that it was a revitalized neighborhood and things were. What struck me was that the neighborhood had a wonderful sense of energy and vibrancy that most of Houston lacks.
Living in the burbs you get the sense that you are just in a giant dormitory with lawns and supermarkets. No purpose no character just well laid out streets and security. But I suppose it takes time and history for a neighborhood to develop that.
Most of Houston is less than 70 years old and we continually see fit to demolish bits and pieces of it when the real estate market deems it expedient. Maybe someday in the far-flung future….
In the meantime, for no reason at all I decided to walk down towards the Haight from the Castro to see how far it was. Not that far but farther than you would think.
Once there I just ambled about for awhile looking at the old Victorian houses till, I noticed that the afternoon was getting late and decided to get a ride back to the Hotel.
The Year of the Dog
I was born in the year of the Dog and my element was wood. According the Chinese zodiac, Wood Dogs are kind, friendly and stable in character.
So there’s that.
I guess that since this was the year of the Dog I could expect….something? I wasn’t too clear on western astrology let alone eastern astrology.
I was however clear that a huge lunar new year parade was going on downtown and that traffic would be a mess, so I put on my blue suit and booked a table at a high-end steak restaurant away from the parade route.
Steaks (or so pop culture told me) were a big deal in San Francisco and I figured this was the best way to cap off the whole trip.
Catching San Francisco on the Lunar new year weekend had been an accident. Houston had their Lunar new year festival the week before and I had no idea that San Francisco celebrated for two weeks.
Even with forethought my driver was not able to get round the parade and dropped me off on the wrong side of the parade. I asked a cop how much longer this would go and he said a couple more hours.
Looking around I saw a pedestrian overpass and climbed up the stairs to it. The overpass led to a hotel and they had a guard to keep out the parade watching public. Maybe the blue suit lent my plea a bit of gravitas, but the guard let me through.
Once in the hotel I found myself in the middle of the Miss Chinatown pageant reception dinner. Recognizing that this was an excellent way to get busted by security I looked for the way out but not before congratulating the Miss Photogenic winner as I passed by.
Once outside and on the right side of the parade I looked for the restaurant and saw it behind a chain link fence set up for the parade. Going far back down the dark alley I found a spot with a stack of boxes next to it and climbed over the fence to get to the restaurant.
Again, narrow dark alleys, brick buildings, how could I not love this?
The restaurant was one of those old-time restaurants that was dimly lit and had dark maroon wallpaper. The waiter handed me a telephone book sized menu with prices that regularly ranged up into the three-digit range. An extravagance to be sure but how often are you in San Francisco?
I went the traditional route with the martini, and the quarter of an iceberg lettuce, the giant steak, the baked potato, the cheesecake and the too dark and too strong coffee.
When was the last time I’d done this? I mean really done something like this without giving mind to how much does this cost, or how many calories does this have, or should I get to bed early?
When I left the restaurant the tail end of the parade was finishing up. I hadn’t quite had enough and looked up a nearby sushi bar to get a couple more drinks in.
I passed by a group of kids from a local dojo and congratulated them.
“you looked great out there, guys. Good Job!”
After an hour or so at the bar I got a ride back to my hotel and stumbled into my room somewhat worse for wear and started packing for my “before dawn” flight about 6 hours from right then.
Packing was quick. After all I only had one bag.
I don’t recall when the crying started or what set it off. The first time since before the funeral. My legs just buckled and I sat down on the carpet of my hotel room in between the two beds and cried till I passed out.
My phone insisted that I wake up and get off the floor. I passed my face under the cold water tap and did a quick check through the room before leaving.
Back home I showed my mom the pictures on the phone and described the parade and all the shops and all the things I thought she might have liked to have seen.
Up in my home office I had 40 emails waiting, a couple of phone messages and a stack of bills to tend to. Picking up exactly where I had left off on Friday and returning to the same routine.
Two weeks later…
“You’re terminated as of this moment.”
<click>
Cradling the receiver in my hand before hanging up. My lips pursed for a moment before sighing.
“Well, I’m going on vacation”
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