"It can't be all that pretty,
when all of New York City misses you."
--The Magnetic Fields
5/16, Friday night, 11pm
It kills me that I've missed the opportunity to have dinner tonight because of a plane snafu. We head to Home, down the block from the house I'm staying in. It's close to midnight, and our first choice for casual eats, Chow, is already closed. I'm staying with Julie, my dear friend of 18 years. I tell her and her boyfriend Brent that I've given up beef, which seems to really throw them for a loop. We nosh on mac n' cheese and a veggie burger. The night air is uncharacteristically balmy, thick with the musk of night-blooming jasmine. A primary-colored Market streetcar rolls by slowly, easily, its antennae sliding knowingly along the tangle of overhead cables.
5/17, Saturday morning, 7:30 am
JULIE: Gandhi, are you awake yet?
I pull my eye mask off and it takes a second to adjust to the golden sunshine streaming into the room. My room is a little mug and the light just pours and pours into it. I'm bathing in it. Julie is on an astroturf-covered deck right below my window, squinting up at me and stretching her slender arms and legs. Below the deck, a prolific garden with some of the most ecstatic looking greenery I've seen in a long time.
I know how those plants feel. That's how I feel.
The plum tree next door drapes fruit-laden branches over the fence in a neighborly way.
Apple trees and blueberry bushes promise bounty in a matter of weeks.
Best of all, a squat Meyer lemon tree in a shady corner perfumes the air with its heady gardenia-citrus smell, its twiggy stems burdened with tender, golden lemons.
This is the dream I can't realize in New York, the fantasy of a little fruity Eden in my backyard, of citrus trees, avocado trees, stone fruit trees generously brimming with edible gifts. It's breaking my heart.
5/17, Saturday morning, 7:50 am
We head down for my obligatory S.F. visit to Tartine at 18th and Guerrero in the Mission. The doors haven't opened yet, and the line goes down the block, 15 deep.
Jules and I don our sunglasses and grab a side table to enjoy a sticky orange and cinnamon scented morning bun, a flaky rectangular scone encrusted in fat sugar crystals that is at once light and dense, a cup of eggy, syrupy bread pudding with peaches and blueberries, and a cappuccino in a perfect bistro cup the color of almond skin.
Julie's housemate Carlos rides up with his friend Maurice, leaning their bikes up against a telephone pole. They've already biked through Golden Gate Park, down to the beach where gray cloud creep persuaded them to return to the inner halo of the Mission's sunshine.
We stroll back to the house, past the tennis courts in Dolores Park, past creamy stucco churches. I'm full. It's quiet and warm. Is this really what life could be like?
To be continued...
when all of New York City misses you."
--The Magnetic Fields
5/16, Friday night, 11pm
It kills me that I've missed the opportunity to have dinner tonight because of a plane snafu. We head to Home, down the block from the house I'm staying in. It's close to midnight, and our first choice for casual eats, Chow, is already closed. I'm staying with Julie, my dear friend of 18 years. I tell her and her boyfriend Brent that I've given up beef, which seems to really throw them for a loop. We nosh on mac n' cheese and a veggie burger. The night air is uncharacteristically balmy, thick with the musk of night-blooming jasmine. A primary-colored Market streetcar rolls by slowly, easily, its antennae sliding knowingly along the tangle of overhead cables.
5/17, Saturday morning, 7:30 am
JULIE: Gandhi, are you awake yet?
I pull my eye mask off and it takes a second to adjust to the golden sunshine streaming into the room. My room is a little mug and the light just pours and pours into it. I'm bathing in it. Julie is on an astroturf-covered deck right below my window, squinting up at me and stretching her slender arms and legs. Below the deck, a prolific garden with some of the most ecstatic looking greenery I've seen in a long time.
I know how those plants feel. That's how I feel.
The plum tree next door drapes fruit-laden branches over the fence in a neighborly way.
Apple trees and blueberry bushes promise bounty in a matter of weeks.
Best of all, a squat Meyer lemon tree in a shady corner perfumes the air with its heady gardenia-citrus smell, its twiggy stems burdened with tender, golden lemons.
This is the dream I can't realize in New York, the fantasy of a little fruity Eden in my backyard, of citrus trees, avocado trees, stone fruit trees generously brimming with edible gifts. It's breaking my heart.
5/17, Saturday morning, 7:50 am
We head down for my obligatory S.F. visit to Tartine at 18th and Guerrero in the Mission. The doors haven't opened yet, and the line goes down the block, 15 deep.
Jules and I don our sunglasses and grab a side table to enjoy a sticky orange and cinnamon scented morning bun, a flaky rectangular scone encrusted in fat sugar crystals that is at once light and dense, a cup of eggy, syrupy bread pudding with peaches and blueberries, and a cappuccino in a perfect bistro cup the color of almond skin.
Julie's housemate Carlos rides up with his friend Maurice, leaning their bikes up against a telephone pole. They've already biked through Golden Gate Park, down to the beach where gray cloud creep persuaded them to return to the inner halo of the Mission's sunshine.
We stroll back to the house, past the tennis courts in Dolores Park, past creamy stucco churches. I'm full. It's quiet and warm. Is this really what life could be like?
To be continued...
:-) In San Francisco...YES!:-)