Wine and cheese at Dolores Park. Feeling free with a bottle in my hand and rebellion in my heart. Cool grass against my legs. The remnants of a wild night—scattered trash and cigarette butts—making white specks in the distance. I am only witnessing the aftermath, but feel almost like I was a part of it. Palm trees surround me. Real palm trees!
Brunch in San Francisco. A bright omelet and bright
optimism. Teasing old friends and making new ones. Sparkly temporary tattoos. Photos
with complete strangers.
Conversations with the staff scientist. Confusion slowly
ebbing away to clarity, which quickly plummets into frustration. Eyes glued to
two computer monitors showing me what I don’t want to see. A slow walk back to
the hotel. But I’ve got a plan for
tomorrow.
A used book store. Infinite shelves of treasure. Claiming
a corner and sharing it with Keats, Dickinson, T.S. Eliot. A title: Savage Beauty. I am inexplicably drawn
to it. A glance from a stranger, and the thought—here is where lovers meet. Here is where two minds understand each
other and two hearts need each other.
Sitting in the same tiny room for too many hours to
count. Coming to the realization: this is
all my fault. I should have been better prepared. Tears threatening to
escape my eyes. Trying the experiment one more time and being disappointed one
more time. Polite conversations with the staff. Back in the hotel room, on the
phone, crying.
Taking the BART at night. I’m on edge—afraid I’ll get
lost—but I’m distracted by dancers on the train, swinging off handle bars,
making moves in mid-air. The bar I finally arrive at is the fanciest one I’ve
ever been to. Dim lights, candles, typewriters, newspaper clippings. Whiskey
and friends. I’m happy.
Struggling to use a new microscope. Even the most basic
of tasks are suddenly ten-fold more difficult. Finally acquiring some
interesting images—very, very slowly. Asking the staff scientist a billion and
one questions because, really, I’ve no shame left. At least I’m learning.
A European books and media store. Guessing the names of
foreign titles. Reading Calvin and Hobbes—in French (or trying to). I’m kind of
proud of myself because pude leer algunos
de los libros espanoles. Well at least, un
poco.
Breakfast at the guest house. Everyone is talking too
loudly. I am normally smitten with anyone with an accent, but this time I glare
silently at the offenders of my morning. The only thing I’m not mad at is my
coffee. Although I am aggressively ambivalent about that, too.
Walking around downtown. There are more homeless people
than I’m used to, and I’m not sure whether it is more rude to make eye contact,
or avoid it. Someone asks me for my leftovers—he doesn’t look homeless, though. “Sorry,” I mumble. “No need to
apologize, hun,” he sneers. His friends laugh. I cross the street self
consciously.
My last day on the second microscope. Time is running
out. Lunch is skipped. Liquid nitrogen sputters out and the vacuum is dumped.
An impatient half hour of waiting. Relief when the vacuum is back, exasperation
when a new problem arises. 6pm rolls around the staff scientist is leaving. My
week is up. Defeated.
The hipster streets of Temescal. Apothecaries and ice
cream shops and thrift stores. Of course I buy another journal—I’m accumulating
them faster than I can fill them—but the atmosphere, the wonder makes me feel
like I need to write. There’s
something I love in every direction I turn. I am charmed.
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