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Quote Of The Day: A Neighborhood Story

The Story:
Today there was no school because it is Shavuot, an important but generally underobserved Jewish holiday that I will describe in another post.  Shavuot is generally celebrated by staying up all night studying Torah and eating lots of dairy foods, but Alef and I decided to take a pluralistic approach and start our own traditions of observance by shopping for shoes and buying sex toys. 

After all this hard work honoring the holiday, we needed a snack (dairy of course) so we walked over to the hipster Bi-Rite Creamery, just across the street from Dolores Park in a neighborhood where neither Alef nor I are cool enough to live: the Mission.  It was here that we experienced what quickly became the quote of the day, courtesy of me (see The Lesson, below), ousting the original frontrunner we'd overheard at Good Vibrations: "Of course you know there are laws against stripping in national parks, don't you?".  Not even I thought I could top that one but little did I know what I would come up with mere minutes later.  Maybe I'll get a fun first date out of it at least?

The Lesson:
http://sfbay.craigslist.org/sfc/mis/337176014.html

Unexpected Sleepover: A Neighborhood Story

The Story:
Last night about eight Voldemort called me and told me to come over to T-Money's for a dinner party.  I warned him that I was school-dirty, wearing day-old jeans and a fleece dug up from the back of the closet somewhere but he reassured me that I'd be fine and to just get my ass "around the corner" as he described it which I found to be a very endearing description of how far apart T$ and I live from one another.  Asking him what I should bring proved somewhat fruitless as he told me just to show up but of course my inner Midwesterner was not able to do that so a stop at Andronico's yielded flowers and a delicious candle for my hostess and host.

A short walk around the corner and I arrived, second of those invited and suddenly horror-stricken that it was a full-on dinner party with other actual guests, not just me having dinner with them and a friend or two but I tried to cover, hopelessly dismayed at how much more stylish and hip the outfits of both T$ and even more so Voldemort himself were than mine.  One of my boy's hand-muddled-mint mojitos later and after two whole plates of delicious vegetarian Mexican food from the Inspired By The Art Of Frida Kahlo cookbook, including pounds of T$'s homemade tortilla chips, I was delighted to sit on the couch and listen to all the brilliant powerful motivated beautiful women doctors in the room share stories about their professional accomplishments, recent and previous.  I was sitting on the couch with Voldemort and T$, she and I having actually an amazingly helpful conversation about the risks and rewards of leaving a small pond where one is a big fish to go swim in the open ocean, and the last thing I remember is her saying "You know, you look *really* tired..."

Next thing I know I wake up somewhere that I do not recognize and have a moment of panic as I struggle with the fact that it is dark and I have no idea at all where I am.  Terrified I feel all over myself and discover with relief that I am dressed, making this already somewhat less of a poor choice than the night almost exactly a year ago when I woke up naked in Mr. Minnesota's bed and vowed never to go drinking in the Marina again.  Sitting up I look around, confused by the fact that I can see without my glasses until I realize my contacts are fused to my corneas having been worn all day and slept in for part of a night.  The light shining out from the bathroom into the hallway illuminates just enough of my surroundings that I am able to recognize the dark, silent apartment as T$'s, a place I had only been once before.  I slink out from under the cozy down comforter covering me and make my way to the bathroom, emerging to read the time on the kitchen clock and learn that it is 5 a.m.  I find my shoes, write a hopefully apologetic enough note on a paper towel, bundle up and let myself out but not before hearing Voldemort mutter in his sleep from the bedroom.

Walking home in the frigid night air I see the baristas preparing to begin their Starbucks day and am welcomed into my apartment by the rumble outside as the first streetcar of the morning lumbers towards the ocean.  I brush my teeth, find a pajama shirt, text Voldemort to apologize and tell him I am safe, and fall back asleep.

The Lesson:
As Pirate Girl responded this morning on the phone to the story about my completely embarrassing experience, "Well my dear, at least you had your underwear."  True that.

My New Bed: A Neighborhood Story

The Story:
Batsheva is Ms. Song's daughter and despite the fact that she is practically young enough to be my own kid we get along very well.  Every now and then, on Sundays, we go recycled-clothes shopping and for other adventures in the neighborhood.  Usually one of her dads drops her off at my house and then we walk to the Haight, stopping along the way for juice or coffee and a scone to fuel us for the afternoon ahead. 

Today we started off at Crossroads where she scored a blue camo tshirt for $3.50 and I came up empty-handed.  Next was Discount Fabrics where for the low low price of $4.98 she got fifteen square yards of fleece to make a sweatshirt for her friend's birthday tomorrow.  We had burritos for lunch and then made a stop at one of our usual haunts, Wasteland, where we never buy anything because it's all too expensive but where we always take pictures of ourselves together in the old-school photo booth in the back.  Last but not least, Goodwill where Batsheva got a purple shirt and caramel-colored patchwork leather chunky-heeled boots, $10 for both together, the bargain of the day.  I struck out time and time again, the nearest miss being a devastatingly hip pair of black patent-leather cowboy boots with red stitching at Goodwill...or half of a fabulous pair, the right one, that is, since the left one could not be found anywhere.  *sigh*

All told though I should not complain because while Batsheva got a number of funky new wardrobe items and even the raw materials for a creative birthday gift for her friend, I got something more valuable and for less money: a new bed!  Propped up against the stoop of a house at Frederick and Cole, the silver IKEA head and footboard complete with side rails had a FREE sign taped to it when we walked by about 1:30.  I was struck with envious delight considering the fact that along with a kitchen table, which I've now owned for almost two years, I had always said when I lived on Fell Street that I'd know I was grown up when my bed was more than a mattress on wheels.  I wanted to somehow claim the free item and Batsheva offered to change the sign to say "$90.00!!!" so that no one would take it until we could come back and have her dad meet us there with his station wagon but in the end we decided that if it was still there when we were finished that it would be a sign the bed was for me.

Three hours later we walked back up the street, her heavy-laden and me empty-handed and I had almost forgotten about the bed as we chattered away about Spring Break and the lazy, glorious ten days ahead when Batsheva jumped up and down and squealed, "It's still there!  I see your bed!"  Sure enough, we crossed the street and my bed remained where we had found it.  Triumphantly she ripped the FREE sign off and dug her new cell phone, a recent birthday gift, from her bag to call her dad and tell him to empty out the back of the Subaru--Miss Nelson had found a bed on the street and we needed him to come get it and us.

The Lesson:
It was hard to put together by myself, trying to balance one end of the rails with my knee or against the wall while screwing in the other end.  Not all the hardware was there but fortunately, thanks to #7 who made me save a bunch of IKEA faux-screws when he built my dresser a few years ago, I had some to spare.  Ninety minutes later I now have my first real bed since I left my parents' house--and the solid-maple twin size headboard my father had grown up sleeping beneath, where I dreamed my first seventeen years' worth of nights away--half my life ago. 

Compost: A Neighborhood Story

The Story:
In the backyard of my building there is a compost bin.  Not like the kind with worms that you turn over with a pitchfork and water with a hose, nothing quite that authentic.  This is just the big green plastic bin that the city comes to pick up once a week along with the trash and recycling.

I compost, usually.  Not every snack, not each time I cook, but for the most part yes.  I am the type of composter, as Ani describes, who takes a double-thick Trader Joe's bag and fills it up with all my food scraps from any given meal or fridge clean-out, throws the bag into the green bin, and is done with it.  True enough. 

Ani, however, has a somewhat different relationship with the earth than I do and is a much more diligent and detail-oriented composter.  She is pro to my amateur, she is veteran to my novice and as my more competent compost peer she brought me a present a month or so ago: my very own white plastic compost bucket to keep in my kitchen.

I tried, I really did.  I put banana peels and coffee grounds into the bucket.  I put the tops of carrots and the bottoms of celery.  But the bin smelled yucky and ants got inside and I told Ani I was not going to deal with it, I would put stuff in but she would have to take stuff out to the compost bin in the backyard.

The Lesson:
She took it out once but then it got ignored for awhile until the stench was so horrific I was sure the refrigerator had died and something had crawled up half-drowned out of the drain and breathed its last in the sink, all in the same day.  Finally I insisted that Ani take it out, not to the compost bin but to the trash, and just throw the whole thing away.  I am back to my paper-bag composting ways and I couldn't be happier.

Laundry: A Neighborhood Story

The Story:
In my building there is a laundry room, downstairs, off the back yard and garden.  The laundry room has one washer and one dryer, coin-operated, which is kind of a mixed blessing.  On the one hand, there is actually laundry here (unlike at the House of Flowers where I lived before this) which prevents the need to go to the, as I heard a fellow patron once call it, "wash house" down the long side of the block on the next corner.  On the other hand, the mathematics of one washer and one dryer does not work out since drying takes twice as long as washing and so if more than one person is trying to do laundry, or one person is trying to do more than one load, there can be a significant back-up of wet clothes.

Such was the case tonight when I went down to put what I had hoped would be the first of two loads for tonight (no such luck).  A woman was putting her clothes into the washer, and also had a large wicker basket full of other, dry things to go in next.  The dryer was also whirring right along, giving me every indication that it would be awhile before my darks got a turn in the Maytag.  "Excuse me, can I just sneak past you to put my bag in the corner?" I asked, planning to leave my dirty clothes down there until it was my turn to use the washer instead of hauling them all back upstairs. 

The woman glowered at me, moving aside but saying nothing.  Weird.  Whatever.  I went upstairs to my apartment, returning an hour later to check on the situation.  The dryer was silent and there was a washer full of clean wet laundry.  I assumed this made it my turn and so I removed the things from the washer and put them on top of the dryer so that when their owner returned it would be easy to transfer them into the second machine.  Once the washer was empty I put my clothes into it and was just adding soap and quarters when the same woman came down again.  Seeing her things piled up on the dryer she gave me an awful look just as I tried to explain.  "The washer was done so I hope you don't mind, I took out your things," I said but she ignored me and yanked the dry clothes out of the machine, shoving the wet clothes in after them and then slamming the door for emphasis before adding quarters and leaving to go back upstairs.

The Lesson:
Why be so crabby about someone who is trying to be neighborly, why?  I know that we Midwesterners can be disarmingly, almost to the point of distressingly, friendly in our forthrightness but that does not mean you have to scowl at us in return.  Really.  We are just trying to be helpful.

In The Park: A Neighborhood Story

The Story:
Yesterday after sleeping in to recover from my marathon day of travel returning from Chicago the morning before, I put on many layers of workout clothes to battle the foggy chill of San Francisco and headed out for a long brisk trip through the park.  Running is not a choice right now, sadly, with a) a fierce head cold knocking at my door and b) the need for new shoes having become profound so I was just speeding along, mall-walker style, when I came around a bend and saw something that made my stomach drop.

Looking back on it, my physical response to the situation was very interesting in that it happened before I even realized what was going on.  That is to say, my body could tell what was happening before my mind or heart could.  Interesting, and unsurprising also.

I saw three people riding their bikes down the path toward me.  The first was a pre-teenager-ish sized person, the second was an adult, and the third was a younger child.  I could tell right away from the knot in my belly who it was and how I knew them, even before their names were in my mind or on my tongue.

"Hi you guys," I said cheerily as I strode up to them.

"Miss Nelson, wow--hi!  Happy New Year!" the older child said.

"Happy New Year Dov, Happy New Year Little Man," I replied.  Romeo, who had been talking to Little Man and had not seen me approaching, stopped dead in her tracks and looked up at me.  As I came closer, she tried to move towards me but was still astride her bike and couldn't quite maneuver her way across the path so she just stood there, her mouth open as if to speak with me but no sound coming out.  "Hi, Romeo," I said, looking not at her face or into her eyes but strangely through and past her to the trees beyond.  Without slowing I continued my way down the path, neither hesitating nor turning around.  After a moment I heard Romeo call after me.  "Happy New Year..."

The Lesson:
I've seen Romeo around plenty, more than I'd like if you must know, with her fast car and her ever-present phone and her (not-so) brand-new girl.   And, she's seen me too: with longer hair, in hot Israeli knee-high boots, laughing by the fountain and smiling in the hallway.  I have seen evidence of her in her child's clothing, she has seen evidence of me in construction paper and Sharpie piled up on Ani's desk.  But I have not spoken with her face to face since July, I have not been that close to her since we sat on a dusty curb in Jerusalem and she tried to tell me how sorry she was(n't). 

I remember back to last year's Winter Break with her, pizza in Chicago and failed attempts to meet in Palm Springs, and I can be honest with myself that it is not due to my own weakness but rather just to the nature of the heart that it is going to take awhile for the memories and the ache to fade.  And also, I can say that I am proud of myself because there were so many times, even when it broke my own heart, that instead of passing her by I turned around and ran after her, chasing her down despite the knowledge that she would never let me catch her.  I did not do that this time.  Yesterday I just kept walking.

ZipCar: A Neighborhood Story

The Story:
Things have gotten so dicey with the Saturn that I think it is just about time for something new.  During my sick day at Pirate Girl's house today (most of which was spent drugged and asleep) I did a little online research about ZipCar, the auto cooperative here in San Francisco of which one can become a member.

I would need to use my local neighborhood ZipCar one day a week, to drive to school and afterwards to Trader Joe's for groceries.  The nearest ZipCar parking station is three blocks from my house, so really a car could even be available closer than I can sometimes find a parking spot as it is.  The membership fee would be waived if I donate the Saturn to charity, and the hourly fee for borrowing the ZipCar would be less than my current costs for gas and insurance. 

The Lesson:
I love the Saturn very much, but after nearly ten years I think it's almost over between us.

Ciao, Bella: A Neighborhood Story

The Story:
A family from last year invited me to dinner tonight in the my old neighborhood.  The place they picked is a small but delicious Italian restaurant tucked into a semi-grimy block of a busy boulevard, across the street from a used car dealership and a few doors down from Office Max.

It was not until after I had said yes to their gracious invitation that I discovered where we would be eating, and once I learned where the reservation had been made I almost had to lie and cancel...this little bistro was the go-to go-out place for Romeo (the new blog name of MFormer1TL) and I whenever it was late or we were tired or neither of us could think of anyplace different to go.

Romeo always said that while she loved the fact that I am a teacher because I adore it and am so successful at what I do, she hated the fact that I am a teacher because I never have any money and my idea of a quick meal out is a burrito from the taqueria on Irving Street.  What she chose not to offer of herself logistically and emotionally over the course of our relationship she more than made up for financially, and this little bistro was a perfect example of the many ways in which I found her horrifically indulgent and she found it delightful to spoil me.  We went there the night before our first summer at camp, we went there the night we ended up never talking again save twice, we went there many times in between.  I had never been there before her, and I had not been back since her until tonight.

The Lesson:
Of course her name came up over dinner; when doesn't it?  It was a sharp and heavy feeling in my chest to be back there again.  That heartache did not prevent me from filling up on the gnocci, though, of course.  This girl's got priorities, come on!  Fresh delicious overpriced Italian food?  Yes, please.

Making A Transition Back To My Urban Self: A Neighborhood Story

The Story:
Two weeks ago, in ulpan, we were in class discussing the geography of Israel.  The topic of the moment was Tel Aviv, in all its secular and metropolitan glory--very different from provincial and religious Jerusalem where we had all been living for almost a month.

Our grammar teacher, Rachel, was working on reinforcing the finer points of preposition use: on vs. in vs. by, a challenge to any language learner.  In order to provide practice in this area, Rachel was asking us what we knew about various neighborhoods of Tel Aviv.

"Achshav, Rehov Sheinkin.  Mi holchim al ha rehov ha zeh?" (Now, Sheinkin Street.  Who walks on this street?--accompanied by finger-walking motions when slowly enunciating the verb holchim so all of us stupid First Graders in Kitah Alef could understand the question being asked)

For those of you whose Israeli geography is less strong, I will say now that Rehov Sheinkin is to Tel Aviv as the Mission is to San Francisco.  This long, narrow street winds along for blocks and blocks and is filled with boutiques selling clothing and shoes, galleries selling art and jewelry, restaurants and bars selling anything you could want to fill up your belly, and even the intermittent music store and nightclub sprinkled in.  Sheinkin Street is where the coolest of the cool go to see and be seen.  I have only been there once, last summer, and in my oh-so-touristy drawstring pants, my shapeless and sizeless linen tunic, and my dusty crusty amphibious sandals I in no way even began to appear to fit in.  I considered briefly flashing my tattoo in an effort to gain some street cred but even that seemed hopeless.

So, being familiar with Rehov Sheinkin, I raised my hand in ulpan to answer the question. 

"Mah, Zelda?  Mi holchim al Rehov Sheinkin b'Tel Aviv?" (Yes, Zelda?  Who walks on Sheinkin Street in Tel Aviv?)

"Ha anashim lo yashanim, uh, im harbeh chaverim, mi ohevim et ha concertim v'et ha musikah pop, uh..." (People who aren't old, with lots of friends, who love concerts and pop music...obviously I was failing miserably in my description)

"Ha hippim?" my teacher wanted to know.  Hippies?  On Sheinkin Street?

"Lo," I replied, exasperated as usual at my inability to describe what I could see in my mind's eye. "Lo bdiyuch hippim..." (Not exactly hippies?!)

"AH!" Rachel declared triumphantly, having after a moment understood me and then found just the perfect word in Hebrew.  "Lo ha HIPPIM, aval ha HIPSTERIM!" she said with satisfaction, picking up a dry-erase marker to write both words on the whiteboard. (Not the HIPPIES, but the HIPSTERS!)

"Ken, ha hipsterim," I repeated.

"Zelda--At hipsteret?" Rachel wanted to know, finished at the whiteboard and turning back to the class. (Zelda--You are a hipster?)

"Achshav, lo, po m'Yerushalayim ani lo hipsteret.  Aval m'San Francisco, ken--sham ani hipsteret gedolah," I declared with both truth at revealing my real identity and pride at having formulated a complete sentence in First Grade. (Now, no, here in Jerusalem I am not a hipster.  But in San Francisco, yes--there I'm a big hipster.)

The Lesson:
Tonight I will need to make good on my words, tonight will for the first time in the five days I've been back mark my transition from the Birkenstock-and-tank-top wearing hippie of Jerusalem to the wrap-dress-with-cardigan-over-cuffed-up-jeans wearing hipster of San Francisco.  I am going to dinner with Voldemort and his posse (including, as he warned me, Ebn to which I replied that after living for five weeks in a war-torn Middle Eastern country Ebn and his wanton pick-up lines don't frighten me in the least) at Bistro Annex on Valencia at 7:30 and while I've never been there it sure sounds like where the hipsterim hang out to me.

Shhhhalom: A Travel Story And A Neighborhood Story

The Backstory:
The category Neighborhood Stories was originally created to tell about things that happened out and about in the 'hood, like the Sunshine Laundry Company stories from back when I used to live at the House of Flowers.  This in time also evolved as the natural place to categorize things that happened within my household as well, although the name is not as natural a fit.  So, the Neighborhood Stories might undergo a facelift at some point.  Not right now, though.  There is a war where I am and I am learning Hebrew seven hours a day and I have bigger fish to fry.

The Story:
When I first moved into this apartment in Jerusalem it was Gatsby and Gavin and me.  Then Gavin went to New York for ten days and it was just two of us living here (or, as they say in Israel, "we were two" which although both accurate and an appropriate observance of local language customs seems a little too intimate to describe exactly what was happening).  Then Gavin returned from the States and his brother-in-law Jay showed up too, but since Gavin was moving out anyway it was still just three of us.

Tonight I was studying the past tense of verbs conjugated like the one that means "to live" (insert here a brief thought about attempting to actually type that in Hebrew, a thought that was quickly abandoned, and just imagine the verb if you know it and if not, move on) and Jay was writing his articles for work.  Finished with my learning, I came to sit at the coffee table where Gatsby's laptop was also set up side-by-side with Jay's iBook.  Seeing an opportunity to get some writing done, I sat down and began to tell a story or two.

Not long after I began the doorknob that foiled my comings and goings the first two weeks I lived here twisted open with a clank and a sigh and Gatsby let himself in.  "Shalom!" he greeted us as he always does, as always makes me feel like I am home for now, but instead of responding with a friendly, housemate-ish "Shalom!" as I did Jay instead replied with just a "Shh!" 

"What?  Why are we being so quiet in here?" Gatsby wanted to know, eyeing my use of his computer with something between surprise and suspicion. 

"Study hall," Jay grumbled, continuing to type away.  "I'm behind deadline for tomorrow."

"And you?" Gatsby asked me.  "Are you telling stories?"

"I am," I replied.  "Nothing you haven't heard yet."

"Will you be long?" he wanted to know.

"Five more minutes," I promised optimistically.

"Are you telling the story about seeing the two Orthodox drag queens with their baby at the mall this afternoon?" Gatsby inquired curiously.

"Not yet," I told him, trying not so successfully to type and talk at the same time.

"Well, if that one's next on your list you can have more than five minutes," he replied, getting an almost-midnight snack of Ben and Jerry's out of the freezer.

The Lesson:
I used my five(-ish) minutes to type this story instead so you can see how much I am enjoying my household here.  It is very fun to live in our apartment--fun to me, at least.  And, I worked in a fabulous preview for the next story to be told about a moment this afternoon when I almost thought I was back in San Francisco.  Willie, this tease is for you :)