As hard as this might be to believe, I only reluctantly agreed to participate in our company-wide, staff appreciation American Idol karaoke event next week, largely because a co-worker lured me into it with flattering words. She and I had sung "Endless Love" together last year at a marketing team talent show, and in her pitch to persuade me to join her American Idol team, she said that she could not imagine singing without me.
How could I turn that down?
She immediately went to work and poured through the 75-page list of available songs and settled on "Our Day Will Come," by Ruby and the Romantics, a lilting 60s R&B ditty that has a sound of summertime and sunsets.
And because each team must have at least three members, she recruited my boss and another co-worker, all women, and unofficially turned us into 'Austin and the Romantics.'
We 'rehearsed' for the first time yesterday afternoon. Just when I thought to write my workdays off as indistinguishable from one to the next, I found myself sitting in a conference room, singing with my boss.
The song is structurally simple, easily broken up into four distinct stanzas so each of us can have our moment in the sun. At the end of it, we come together and all repeat the last stanza, along with three "our day will come"s before the music fades, hopefully to passionate applause. I then got the idea to see if all my years as a spectator of a cappella groups, as well as my four active months of participation in one, have taught me anything; I decided to arrange a simple four-part harmony for the last three measures so we could really end the song with aplomb.
This work amounted to arranging harmony for four notes, likely a minute effort for even a fledgling arranger. It took me one hour. I have always said that I was a bona fide musician trapped in a non-musician's body, and though I have felt it stir lately, never had I felt that musician part of me want to burst out of my head so badly as I tested chord after chord for consonance.
I unveiled my creation to the group this morning with a host of caveats: this was my first time; I was not sure how it would sound with actual voices; we can scrap the idea if it sounds disastrous. My boss, ever the philosopher, said, "I guess it's kind of like cooking. You know what needs to go together, you might even have a recipe, but you have to taste the end product to really know how successful you are."
And with that, we dove in. With my little iPad keyboard to tap out the notes, we learned our lines of harmony, running them a few times for each of us to imprint our parts into our bodies. Before we put it all together, I took a deep breath. This was a defining moment. Not really, I knew that, but kind of, as if a beautiful sound could free my musician within, could give it a bridge to cross over into the real world. A cacophonous one would scare it back into hiding, right when I felt like it was ready to come out and be someone.
"OK, that was pretty tasty," my boss said with a smile after we cut off the last chord. She looked right at me and nodded vigorously, confirming her assessment and mine as well. "I want to hear it again!"
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
7/20/2011 - the mountain to the climber. . .
Sam and I used to live on Nob Hill, a few blocks north of Union Square. The location was convenient for the both of us. He had easy access to the freeway as he worked in the East Bay at the time, and my office was eight blocks away in the Financial District. If I didn't eat breakfast at home, I could reasonably crawl out of bed, get cleaned up and dressed, and walk to work in about the same amount of time it would take for the sleep lines on my face to fade. Sometimes less.
Coming home, though, would be a different matter. The eight blocks I could practically roll down in the morning became a vigorous climb in the afternoon, culminating in three steep uphill blocks. When Sam and I first started dating and I would meet him at this very apartment after work, I often would loiter for a few minutes outside of his building, just so I could cool off and not walk into his house as a sweaty, winded mess.
I know that some people commute by train for an hour in order to get into the City. A friend has to take a bus, then a train, and walk 15 minutes to get to work. My sister, who started her new job on Monday, has to drive over half an hour, and there I was, complaining about a 10 or 15 minute walk home. But my laziness knows no bounds, so when Sam and I started househunting, we had one strict dealbreaker: location.
Of course, location of a property is one of the key factors in its value, but I interpreted that word for myself as simply flat topography so I could bike home. And in a neighborhood where I won't get mugged on my way. So we ended up in SoMa.
And it has been great, if only for its location. I leave my office in the afternoons now and am guaranteed to be home within 15 minutes after an easy bike ride. I barely even break a sweat on most days. The "commute" back up California Street to our Nob Hill apartment seems so much longer ago than just one year, and I do not miss it at all.
However, it occurred to me yesterday, as Sam and I walked behind Grr on the side of Bernal Hill, that I have not escaped the incline at all, merely traded California Street for a dirt-and-rock trail. Every day for more days than I can remember now, we have taken Grr to Bernal after work and walked with him on its rolling paths across from the skyline of the City.
When I told Sam of this realization, he said, "At least we have a choice in the matter now."
But not really. If you could see how excited Grr is to see us in the afternoons, when the prospect of a park looms near, you would know, then, that there never was a choice in the matter. And though I have days where I wish I could just go home and sit on the couch, go home and waste time on the internet, go home and play the piano, or just simply go home, which is probably the most tempting option of them all, I think these park trips have been really good for all of us. Physically, for sure, but also, Sam and I talk more. Without all the distractions that we have provided for ourselves at home, we really have no other form of entertainment but each other on these mile-long walks. Just us, the hill, and every step we take together before we return to the car.
Yesterday, I found myself quite a few paces behind them as we climbed the steepest slope of Bernal. I had a headache and felt lethargic, so I just trudged along aimlessly, wandering in my head from thought to thought. When I looked up, I saw Grr zig-zagging from plant to plant, gopher hole to gopher hole, and Sam right behind him, throwing rocks and pine cones to grab Grr's attention. And me, several feet below them, with them, but not really, yet I felt closer to them than ever. I was reminded of what Khalil Gibran had written about friendship: "When you part from your friend, you grieve not; for that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain."
Coming home, though, would be a different matter. The eight blocks I could practically roll down in the morning became a vigorous climb in the afternoon, culminating in three steep uphill blocks. When Sam and I first started dating and I would meet him at this very apartment after work, I often would loiter for a few minutes outside of his building, just so I could cool off and not walk into his house as a sweaty, winded mess.
I know that some people commute by train for an hour in order to get into the City. A friend has to take a bus, then a train, and walk 15 minutes to get to work. My sister, who started her new job on Monday, has to drive over half an hour, and there I was, complaining about a 10 or 15 minute walk home. But my laziness knows no bounds, so when Sam and I started househunting, we had one strict dealbreaker: location.
Of course, location of a property is one of the key factors in its value, but I interpreted that word for myself as simply flat topography so I could bike home. And in a neighborhood where I won't get mugged on my way. So we ended up in SoMa.
And it has been great, if only for its location. I leave my office in the afternoons now and am guaranteed to be home within 15 minutes after an easy bike ride. I barely even break a sweat on most days. The "commute" back up California Street to our Nob Hill apartment seems so much longer ago than just one year, and I do not miss it at all.
However, it occurred to me yesterday, as Sam and I walked behind Grr on the side of Bernal Hill, that I have not escaped the incline at all, merely traded California Street for a dirt-and-rock trail. Every day for more days than I can remember now, we have taken Grr to Bernal after work and walked with him on its rolling paths across from the skyline of the City.
When I told Sam of this realization, he said, "At least we have a choice in the matter now."
But not really. If you could see how excited Grr is to see us in the afternoons, when the prospect of a park looms near, you would know, then, that there never was a choice in the matter. And though I have days where I wish I could just go home and sit on the couch, go home and waste time on the internet, go home and play the piano, or just simply go home, which is probably the most tempting option of them all, I think these park trips have been really good for all of us. Physically, for sure, but also, Sam and I talk more. Without all the distractions that we have provided for ourselves at home, we really have no other form of entertainment but each other on these mile-long walks. Just us, the hill, and every step we take together before we return to the car.
Yesterday, I found myself quite a few paces behind them as we climbed the steepest slope of Bernal. I had a headache and felt lethargic, so I just trudged along aimlessly, wandering in my head from thought to thought. When I looked up, I saw Grr zig-zagging from plant to plant, gopher hole to gopher hole, and Sam right behind him, throwing rocks and pine cones to grab Grr's attention. And me, several feet below them, with them, but not really, yet I felt closer to them than ever. I was reminded of what Khalil Gibran had written about friendship: "When you part from your friend, you grieve not; for that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain."
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
7/19/2011 - almost poetic. . .
This morning, my co-workers and I took our boss out to a quick breakfast of oatmeal and coffee in honor of her birthday. Though we successfully avoided talking very much about work, my boss did say the following about her 11-year tenure with the company. It was quite enlightening, and almost poetic; I've been thinking about it all day:
I never thought that I would still be here. When I was 23, I thought I'd stay around for a few years, then move on to a different job, one with more writing because I wanted to be a writer. Journalism even, maybe. But then I watched all of my friends get laid off in the dot-com bust, all while I felt more and more secure here. My job was easy enough. I got to travel, practice yoga, do things I was passionate about, and finally just realized that I didn't need work to define my life. I should define my life.
I never thought that I would still be here. When I was 23, I thought I'd stay around for a few years, then move on to a different job, one with more writing because I wanted to be a writer. Journalism even, maybe. But then I watched all of my friends get laid off in the dot-com bust, all while I felt more and more secure here. My job was easy enough. I got to travel, practice yoga, do things I was passionate about, and finally just realized that I didn't need work to define my life. I should define my life.
Monday, July 18, 2011
7/18/2011 - so good. . .
Yesterday morning, I let myself sleep in as a 'reward' for my a cappella debut with Rapid Transit the night before in what was, hopefully, a pretty successful concert. Sam filmed some footage that he wanted me to watch, but I just couldn't. At least in my memory, I can pretend that it was perfect, I was on key, and I stood up there with confidence and panache. I thought it best if I sat in a safe and secluded room when I go to watch (and listen to) the actual version of events.
So I sat at the kitchen counter and had breakfast, read through my various news sites and blogs, responded to some e-mails, and woke up. Then Sam cleaned the house and swept up enough dog hair from the floor to make at least one more Grr out of it, possibly even two, while I played the piano, found sheet music for Christina Perri's "Jar of Hearts," and accompanied myself while singing it, dying a little on the inside--I find the lyrics clunky ("You're gonna catch a cold / from the ice inside your soul". . .) at best, but the melody is catchy.
Then we took Grr out to our little walking trail up in Bernal Heights, came across a three-legged dog who had been hit by a car as a puppy. I wondered if he knew that his life was that much harder than the lives of other dogs, or if he was just as happy traversing over the slopes and dunes of Bernal with his three legs as Grr is with his four. Do dogs have the cognitive ability (curse?) to compare themselves to others?
By the time we got home and had lunch, it was well into the afternoon, and though I felt like the day had gotten away from me, I looked around--the pup was exhausted, the house cleaned, and I had played the piano for about an hour altogether. That's something, right?
After lunch, I sat down and finished playing through the second installment of God of War, in which players assume the character of Kratos, betrayed by the Greek gods of Olympus and now on a rampage to kill Zeus himself. I rarely ever finish video games. Most of the time, I either get bored or the difficulties of the game become insurmountable. But God of War, with its (relative) sophisticated storyline, easy-to-grasp controls, and a main character drawn to resemble any one of the muscle-bound soldiers of 300, never lost my interest.
Evening then rolled through, and we took Grr around the block in our neighborhood. Though he is still convinced that trash cans will suddenly up and chase him down, and he keeps a wary eye on plastic bags that float in the wind, his confidence has improved significantly from a few months ago, when he could barely make it out of the front door without tucking his tail between his legs and trembling against a wall.
To round out our day, Sam and I watched Insidious, a haunted-house story with possibly the best sound engineering I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing in a horror movie. Even the silence, when compared to the piercing shrieks of violins that made me jump several times, felt equally terrifying, filled with impending dread. At the end of the movie, I was exhausted from the prolonged stress the movie induced, yet I had some trouble falling and staying asleep afterwards.
Throughout yesterday, I semi-consciously (or semi-subconsciously, depending on how you look at it) decided not to write. No reason or justification; I just could not imagine stopping at any point in the day, holing up in the closet, and writing. So I let each hour pass, watched the light change from bright to dim, filled my day with activity, either purposeful or mindless, and did not once burden myself with this responsibility.
And it felt so good.
So I sat at the kitchen counter and had breakfast, read through my various news sites and blogs, responded to some e-mails, and woke up. Then Sam cleaned the house and swept up enough dog hair from the floor to make at least one more Grr out of it, possibly even two, while I played the piano, found sheet music for Christina Perri's "Jar of Hearts," and accompanied myself while singing it, dying a little on the inside--I find the lyrics clunky ("You're gonna catch a cold / from the ice inside your soul". . .) at best, but the melody is catchy.
Then we took Grr out to our little walking trail up in Bernal Heights, came across a three-legged dog who had been hit by a car as a puppy. I wondered if he knew that his life was that much harder than the lives of other dogs, or if he was just as happy traversing over the slopes and dunes of Bernal with his three legs as Grr is with his four. Do dogs have the cognitive ability (curse?) to compare themselves to others?
By the time we got home and had lunch, it was well into the afternoon, and though I felt like the day had gotten away from me, I looked around--the pup was exhausted, the house cleaned, and I had played the piano for about an hour altogether. That's something, right?
After lunch, I sat down and finished playing through the second installment of God of War, in which players assume the character of Kratos, betrayed by the Greek gods of Olympus and now on a rampage to kill Zeus himself. I rarely ever finish video games. Most of the time, I either get bored or the difficulties of the game become insurmountable. But God of War, with its (relative) sophisticated storyline, easy-to-grasp controls, and a main character drawn to resemble any one of the muscle-bound soldiers of 300, never lost my interest.
Evening then rolled through, and we took Grr around the block in our neighborhood. Though he is still convinced that trash cans will suddenly up and chase him down, and he keeps a wary eye on plastic bags that float in the wind, his confidence has improved significantly from a few months ago, when he could barely make it out of the front door without tucking his tail between his legs and trembling against a wall.
To round out our day, Sam and I watched Insidious, a haunted-house story with possibly the best sound engineering I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing in a horror movie. Even the silence, when compared to the piercing shrieks of violins that made me jump several times, felt equally terrifying, filled with impending dread. At the end of the movie, I was exhausted from the prolonged stress the movie induced, yet I had some trouble falling and staying asleep afterwards.
Throughout yesterday, I semi-consciously (or semi-subconsciously, depending on how you look at it) decided not to write. No reason or justification; I just could not imagine stopping at any point in the day, holing up in the closet, and writing. So I let each hour pass, watched the light change from bright to dim, filled my day with activity, either purposeful or mindless, and did not once burden myself with this responsibility.
And it felt so good.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
7/16/2011 - waiting for the moment. . .
In high school, I ran cross-country for three years. I was an alright runner, a sometimes-contributor to the team by placing in the top five, but I never excelled or anything. I mean, I certainly did better than if I were to have tried out for any other sport (one that, for example, required equipment and some modicum of coordination), but my performance was spotty at best. Every race was a great unknown: will today be a day where I could run forever, or one where every step feels hindered by anchors to my feet? And because of this uncertainty, I filled every race day with anxiety and nerves.
I would be alright if I didn't think about it. I could go through my school day about as normally as I ever would, but as soon I thought about it, as soon as the thought hit me that I would have to run two-and-some-odd miles as fast as possible in just a few hours, I would literally feel my heart take an extra beat and I would have to catch my breath. Not that there was ever any pressure to place or surpass a record of any kind; the anxiety was completely self-induced.
Much like now, where I mostly went about my day as usual--eating my breakfast, taking the dog out, working on this blog. But as soon as I remembered that in 10 hours, in 8 hours, in 6 1/2, I would be standing in front of a (hopefully packed) restaurant with my a cappella group. Singing. And again, just like it did in high school, my heart would flutter, I'd feel my stomach drop, and I'd have to take a deep breath to remind myself that I want this, had wanted it ever since I sat on the concrete in front of Sather Gate in UC Berkeley 13 years ago and watched the Men's Octet perform a kind of music I had admittedly never heard before.
It helps, too, to remember my 15-year-old self on race day, waiting for the moment, changed into my running singlet and shorts, standing at the starting line. Every time, no matter how many races I had done, I always felt the same: clammy, uncertain, and wishing that I had not signed on for this at all. But then when I heard the gun go off, and I found myself almost carried by the momentum of all the other runners around me, I would discover that my legs did work, that I had it in me to run the race, that often, even enough to have some fun.
I would be alright if I didn't think about it. I could go through my school day about as normally as I ever would, but as soon I thought about it, as soon as the thought hit me that I would have to run two-and-some-odd miles as fast as possible in just a few hours, I would literally feel my heart take an extra beat and I would have to catch my breath. Not that there was ever any pressure to place or surpass a record of any kind; the anxiety was completely self-induced.
Much like now, where I mostly went about my day as usual--eating my breakfast, taking the dog out, working on this blog. But as soon as I remembered that in 10 hours, in 8 hours, in 6 1/2, I would be standing in front of a (hopefully packed) restaurant with my a cappella group. Singing. And again, just like it did in high school, my heart would flutter, I'd feel my stomach drop, and I'd have to take a deep breath to remind myself that I want this, had wanted it ever since I sat on the concrete in front of Sather Gate in UC Berkeley 13 years ago and watched the Men's Octet perform a kind of music I had admittedly never heard before.
It helps, too, to remember my 15-year-old self on race day, waiting for the moment, changed into my running singlet and shorts, standing at the starting line. Every time, no matter how many races I had done, I always felt the same: clammy, uncertain, and wishing that I had not signed on for this at all. But then when I heard the gun go off, and I found myself almost carried by the momentum of all the other runners around me, I would discover that my legs did work, that I had it in me to run the race, that often, even enough to have some fun.
Friday, July 15, 2011
7/15/2011 - my first performance. . .
I took a couple of hours off from work this afternoon in order to come home and run through some music for my first performance with Rapid Transit A Cappella tomorrow night in Oakland.
I had a dream a few nights ago where I had procrastinated in buying the black shirt I would need in order to complete my Rapid Transit concert ensemble, and I raided my closet, my dad's closet, even my grandfather's, in search of a suitable shirt. One was a dark blue, one had glittery stripes on it, and another I could barely fit my head through. All the while, I began panicking because I had intended to spend the hours leading up to the concert by rehearsing through the line-up of songs, and with each shirt discarded for whatever reason, I watched my opportunity to do so dissolve.
But now, with a quick run to Ross for a black shirt that suitably fits the dress code and an hour or so of practice at home, I think I am about as ready as I hope to be. Over dinner, I told Sam that I was immeasurably nervous. He, in his own tangential way, tried to offer solace and replied, "But this is your first concert where you're actually singing in the group, not just sitting in the audience. I can't wait!"
After how many years, now, have I watched a cappella groups perform and wished I was up there with them? 10? I can't wait, either.
I had a dream a few nights ago where I had procrastinated in buying the black shirt I would need in order to complete my Rapid Transit concert ensemble, and I raided my closet, my dad's closet, even my grandfather's, in search of a suitable shirt. One was a dark blue, one had glittery stripes on it, and another I could barely fit my head through. All the while, I began panicking because I had intended to spend the hours leading up to the concert by rehearsing through the line-up of songs, and with each shirt discarded for whatever reason, I watched my opportunity to do so dissolve.
But now, with a quick run to Ross for a black shirt that suitably fits the dress code and an hour or so of practice at home, I think I am about as ready as I hope to be. Over dinner, I told Sam that I was immeasurably nervous. He, in his own tangential way, tried to offer solace and replied, "But this is your first concert where you're actually singing in the group, not just sitting in the audience. I can't wait!"
After how many years, now, have I watched a cappella groups perform and wished I was up there with them? 10? I can't wait, either.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
7/14/2011 - to Ti Couz. . .
I learned today, rather unceremoniously, that Ti Couz, a local crèpe restaurant in the Mission District, has closed for good. "All boarded up," Sam texted after finding out for himself this afternoon, the result of a foiled lunch meeting there.
It is no secret that San Francisco's restaurants come and go much like the nightly blanket of fog that creeps in at sundown and (sometimes) disappearing by noon. I can't even count or remember how many restaurants I have been to and loved that have since shuttered their doors and completely disappeared from the collective memory.
But Ti Couz was different.
If ever there was a restaurant that played a role in my "formative years," that I have used as a lamppost to guide my way into the City, it would be Ti Couz. Back when the City was still 'San Francisco' to me, and I regularly lost my way trying to navigate its maze of one-ways and non-gridded streets, a friend from UC Davis brought me to Ti Couz one otherwise nondescript Saturday night, me and about 12 of her friends, none of whom I knew prior to this dinner.
I'm sure I've said it here before: I don't do so well in large crowds of strangers, however friendly and welcoming they may be. I don't dislike it so much because I am shy, or that I have no interest in it; mostly, I find it very tiring--so much effort in getting acquainted but never enough acquaintance.
I approached the evening with some hesitation, and I would have gotten out of it if only I could find a reason compelling enough to use. Evelyn and I were the last to arrive, and there we stood, in a crowd of 10 other people on the sidewalk with various other crowds of varying sizes waiting to be seated. Across the street, people lined up for a concert or movie or something at the Roxie Theater, cyclists sped along the road alongside traffic, and an eclectic parade of homeless, hipsters (is that word still kosher to use?), and homosexuals passed us by, no doubt on their way to other restaurants, to stand on the sidewalk in front of them and wait for their own table.
Davis, with its sleepy downtown and empty restaurant tables aplenty, this was not.
By the time we sat down 45 minutes later, I felt like I had known these people all of my life, though now I can no longer recall a single person's face or name. I don't know if it was because they all were exceedingly friendly or if somehow I caught the buzz of excitement that seemed to permeate Valencia and 16th Streets and even the air itself, but I barely felt any of my usual fatigue after meeting new people. I remember thinking, "Is this what City life is like, freedom and friendship over great food?"
Evelyn encouraged me to order a "citron pressé," essentially a build-your-own lemonade, starting with a glass of ice, a carafe of water, simple syrup, and lemon juice, all separated and waiting to be turned into an actual beverage. I couldn't believe how cool it was, really. This was a highlight of my night, and when I think about Ti Couz, I never fail to remember this drink.
Well, that and sitting in this restaurant that threatened to explode from noise, drinking mylemonade citron pressé and enjoying the most delicious crèpe with the most delicious mushroom sauce I had ever tasted. And the whole experience just screamed 'San Francisco!' to me, from standing outside waiting for a table, to being led past the kitchen and to our table in what felt, to my limited international knowledge, like a real slice of Europe. And the crowd! How much more of an urbanite could I be, having dinner on a Saturday night in a bustling restaurant with people I barely knew, would likely never see again, yet whose company I reveled in, and seemingly, they in mine?
It all felt like a secret that Evelyn whispered into my ear that subsequently changed my entire perception of San Francisco. I mean, sure, I could find my way to Union Square, Fisherman's Wharf, and could probably even make it to the Castro, but really, who couldn't? This restaurant? With these people? And with a citron pressé? Not so likely.
And now it's gone, and I never even saw it coming (even though I learned it actually happened a couple of months ago, thanks to a quick Google search), never had a chance to go back one last time. And though I always held it in a special place in my heart, took out-of-towners there and regaled them with this story of "my first San Francisco experience," I never realized how much I could love a restaurant until I got Sam's text and realized just how fond my memories were.
It is no secret that San Francisco's restaurants come and go much like the nightly blanket of fog that creeps in at sundown and (sometimes) disappearing by noon. I can't even count or remember how many restaurants I have been to and loved that have since shuttered their doors and completely disappeared from the collective memory.
But Ti Couz was different.
If ever there was a restaurant that played a role in my "formative years," that I have used as a lamppost to guide my way into the City, it would be Ti Couz. Back when the City was still 'San Francisco' to me, and I regularly lost my way trying to navigate its maze of one-ways and non-gridded streets, a friend from UC Davis brought me to Ti Couz one otherwise nondescript Saturday night, me and about 12 of her friends, none of whom I knew prior to this dinner.
I'm sure I've said it here before: I don't do so well in large crowds of strangers, however friendly and welcoming they may be. I don't dislike it so much because I am shy, or that I have no interest in it; mostly, I find it very tiring--so much effort in getting acquainted but never enough acquaintance.
I approached the evening with some hesitation, and I would have gotten out of it if only I could find a reason compelling enough to use. Evelyn and I were the last to arrive, and there we stood, in a crowd of 10 other people on the sidewalk with various other crowds of varying sizes waiting to be seated. Across the street, people lined up for a concert or movie or something at the Roxie Theater, cyclists sped along the road alongside traffic, and an eclectic parade of homeless, hipsters (is that word still kosher to use?), and homosexuals passed us by, no doubt on their way to other restaurants, to stand on the sidewalk in front of them and wait for their own table.
Davis, with its sleepy downtown and empty restaurant tables aplenty, this was not.
By the time we sat down 45 minutes later, I felt like I had known these people all of my life, though now I can no longer recall a single person's face or name. I don't know if it was because they all were exceedingly friendly or if somehow I caught the buzz of excitement that seemed to permeate Valencia and 16th Streets and even the air itself, but I barely felt any of my usual fatigue after meeting new people. I remember thinking, "Is this what City life is like, freedom and friendship over great food?"
Evelyn encouraged me to order a "citron pressé," essentially a build-your-own lemonade, starting with a glass of ice, a carafe of water, simple syrup, and lemon juice, all separated and waiting to be turned into an actual beverage. I couldn't believe how cool it was, really. This was a highlight of my night, and when I think about Ti Couz, I never fail to remember this drink.
Well, that and sitting in this restaurant that threatened to explode from noise, drinking my
It all felt like a secret that Evelyn whispered into my ear that subsequently changed my entire perception of San Francisco. I mean, sure, I could find my way to Union Square, Fisherman's Wharf, and could probably even make it to the Castro, but really, who couldn't? This restaurant? With these people? And with a citron pressé? Not so likely.
And now it's gone, and I never even saw it coming (even though I learned it actually happened a couple of months ago, thanks to a quick Google search), never had a chance to go back one last time. And though I always held it in a special place in my heart, took out-of-towners there and regaled them with this story of "my first San Francisco experience," I never realized how much I could love a restaurant until I got Sam's text and realized just how fond my memories were.
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