The first glimpse I had of San Francisco is through the airplane window from the aisle seat during an early February morning. The scene below is the bay and some houses that are tilted. I thought its the 13 hours flight with a confusing stop at Narita, the normal setting is a bit surrealism to everything. Now, after living in the city for three years, being in San Francisco is to live literally in a tilted surface.
The ups and downs of the roads and the uneven roofs of rows and rows of Victorian houses is too organized and endearingly unique yet a bit claustrophobic. I lived my early years in a farm, set at the lowlands that goes and goes to the distant lake at the east and far away mountains to the west, accentuated with a concrete highway slicing through the rice fields from north to south. Open spaces have always calmed me down. My first impression of San Francisco is overwhelming and refreshing at the same time, I have to let it sink for a while.
The first and a half month was filled with rain. It rained the whole March, it even hailed at Inner Sunset. The sky was all time gray and I was always huddled with the cat in the couch, trying so hard to be warm. I should not be hating those days, especially now that there is a scary drought in the whole state of California. But as a tropical girl, I just hated those days. Maybe this time, if it rains the whole month of March, I will still be grumbling but at least I'll know there is a purpose out of a month's rain.
The next twenty months is a complex mix of married life, career planning, license applications and exams and learning to drive. On top of that I have to let go of my tropical clothes and have to adapt the city's fashion. Its not bad at all. It's very down-to-earth, well I think Haight Street as well as Fillmore Street is the best place to shop for clothes. I worked for five years in malls so I try to avoid it like the plague, now that I can afford to. I think the street car on the rails is the most fun ever, as mode of transportation in the city. I love the Arboretum and De Young Museum especially when they featured Vivien Westwood then Chihuly. I was at the Fisherman's Wharf once but it was so grey and chilly. I hated the driving lesson. In fact I did'nt learn at all. Its just too crazy for me. I'm not that patient with moving machines. I'll give it a try in the future, when I calmed down. I experienced set back in my career goals; it was competitive and experience is overrated. For a Foreign Educated its just a matter of raising my own measure of excellence. I'm still working on it. I love working downtown because it was almost always sunny. I love the beach and hated it at the same time. Its so beautiful and powerful at once. I have to remind myself, this is not the inviting and warm tropical sea its the powerful and mighty Pacific Ocean.
In fact, relationships here in San Francisco is kind of a being in the ocean beach. Marital life is no question, an ocean for me. I learned to disect the whole cultural divide at my own cost. The responsibility of walking in the eggshell pavement of growth and self-awareness is best done, as I learned, with the guidance of the professionals. Turns out its not only productive but also less messy. That is the reason I have very few close friends in this city. If an acquaintance have problems, especially if its not in my line of profession, I say go see the experts. They will be of great help if you recognize you need the help. I don't want to sound like a whip but that is how I continue to survive in the city. I had problems, there are the professionals duly licensed by the state to help. In the circle of friends and family I stepped in, it is considered a faux pas to spill personal problems on the rug. "Go to professionals, co-pay is affordable and its just a matter of priority." they'll say. Of course some friends forgets the memo during tough times, and we let them spill out for times and gently guide them to the experts. Now these does not mean I can not click my champagne flute with yours after yoga during Thursday nights. Please just be responsible of your own neurosis.
When my brother died last December of 2007, I went home. The ever familiar terrain overwhelmed me. As well as the blatant poverty. The sun shined like it was always 2:00 p.m. in San Francisco. Everything is saturated with color, even the concrete road. Maybe its the humidity and grief, maybe its just me, the grounds are all solid under my feet. There was no eggshells cracking. Its all powder crushed in the ground. The double-faced grieving widow, the money-hungry, grief-opportunist so-called friends of the grieving mother who lost a son, the all too silent eyes of a four-year old who lost his dad and the sisters who are shell-shocked that they end up paying most for the funeral. My father's wise grieving voice stopped me in my questions of why's. True friends and grieving relatives of the dead sorrounded my dead brother's coffin as I hold in my arms the grief-faking widow, while I watch how my mom will take it all without having a heart attack. My two sisters comforting my parents and my nephew letting go of the white balloons with his tiny hands and innocent goodbye. Curious onlookers and spectators mingled with the grieving friends and relatives. I was shocked at how raw and callous these spectators are. In the humid air I felt nothing at all. The grief and anger have anesthesized me. I stayed with my family for two more weeks, searching for the relentless truth behind my brother's death. I found the alibi but not the truth. I have yet to come back and look it in the eye. My parents raised their brows on my transformation. How can I come home with these cultural eggshells of pavement? How can I stay so calm and try to stay in a hotel when the house where I grew up with my brother is just half hour away? How can I ask them to move to an apartment while the old place will be renovated? How can I serve them with nice food when they are mourning? How can I not sit and listen to the pointless conversations and be so rude to ask for the bottom line? Suddenly, I am the face of the enemy. Somebody who just showed up to mourn with them. Somebody who does not think, act, talk and eat like them anymore.
The second time I touchdown on San Francisco? I was in a numb state. Everything was grey, cold and uneven. I don't remember much of the detail but I have the sense of gladness instead of distant curiosity. Thirteen months later, I can finally admit to myself that San Francisco is my home now. I sense a normalcy now on the tilted terrain of the city. After all, one of my precious friend back home told me once, " Cultivate your strength, it will help you survive in a tilted universe." And I love her for that.
