Dear Diary

I’m calling this one “Dear Diary” because it’s not so much an entry of observation or insight, but it’s an entry of me. The longer I’m in India, the more I stand out like a sore thumb. I’m the only white person I’ve seen in days (since Osho) and even then I don’t have a fancy burgundy robe.

I walk too fast – in the office today it was a game of hurry up and wait - I kept running (nearly) from one place to the other but every time I got up to city-speed, I was stalled by someone taking their time on the way to their next meeting, coffee break, social.

For some reason, even though I’ve been here two weeks, I can’t get in the traffic swing of things. Most people keep a slow steady pace (their pace) – if cars come they keep their pace and the car knows to move or change speeds to meet that pace. It’s like a non-stop game of chicken with me and I keep losing starting and stopping 50 times before I make it across the street.

I say things I probably shouldn’t…often…

In the gym today Hindi pop music started playing in the locker room. I started bopping my head side-to-side unknowingly. Actually, I guess that means I’m no so different here after all.

I am Eloise, hear me roar! * No, I’m not going crazy(er) changing my name and making animal noises.

No running!

When we were kids we all heard the rule, “no running by the pool.” It came right before, “no swimming for 15-minutes after you eat,” and right after, “do you have sun-block on? Really?”

Working out today, my Pune gym didn’t fail to add another opposite to the list of what I’ve seen at home and what I see here. One of the workout classes was doing laps around the outdoor pool. Standing by all the runners, wearing orange glasses even though it was pitch black out, was Mr. Cool flexing his arms as each person ran by.

Kite cutting

Driving from one place to another is always an adventure. You have to dodge donkeys, cars, and young boys running into the road. This was all tonight, anyhow.

The past few days driving from work to the gym, we’ve seen a group of boys in a kite contest. The purpose of the contest is a group of boys will fly their kites high above the huts lining the streets. While they’re flying their kites, they try to cut the string of one of their co-fliers.

Once a kite goes flying, a group of runners chase after it to catch and win the rogue kite. They often fearlessly and dangerously run into the street pushing each other trying to capture the prize.

I read about this game once, and the book caused such images I thought I had seen these runners before. If you haven’t ready the book The Kite Runner, it’s time to get cracking.

Donkey kong

While enjoying the kite game going on around our car, I saw a young boy chasing a donkey down the street. Another game…not so sure of the rules. I hope he’s not trying to pin the tail!

Buy-off
Driving up MG road (short for Gandhi) Matt and I saw an exchange half comical and half depressing. A motorcycle police officer stopped a moped rider and asked for his ID. The mopen rider immediately pulled out the ID and 100 Rupees and the police nodded his head and rode off. So many isms…so little time!

Blank eyes finding themselves

Monday was Matt’s last day in India so I took off a bit early to finally see some of Pune. We went off with our favorite driver (the only one who really speaks English) to start our city tour. First stop, Osho – a local Ashram and “International Meditation Resort.”

According to Wikipedia, here’s the founder’s history: “Rajneesh Chandra Mohan Jain (December 11, 1931 – January 19, 1990), better known during the 1970s and 1980s as Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh and later taking the name Osho, was an Indian spiritual teacher. He lived in India and in other countries including, for a period, the United States, and inspired the Osho movement, a controversial spiritual and philosophical movement.” Stories I’ve heard suggest Rajneesh was kicked out of Oregon for starting what was the early stages of Osho. For this “meditation” resort, sex was considered a path to enlightenment, and Rolls Royce was the vehicle of choice (as apparently the lined the driveways). Rajneesh was kicked out for unorthodox practice and finance reasons and found his way to Pune. Now, to get into Osho, visitors must pass an HIV test and pay a high price to enter “tranquility” land.

How zen…

We happened by the Ashram only to drive up a beautiful tree lined street. Not only were pink and green (and all shades in between) trees lining the street, but maroon clad sould seekers wafted up and down the road. At Osho, one must buy a set of maroon robes and pay a phenomenal price. Then, they can enjoy tranquility and hopefully become enlightened.

I heart Pune

Being in Delhi for 1-day was enough to make me miss Pune. The streets of Delhi are more crowded than anything I’ve seen yet in India and we didn’t trust anyone…anywhere. My office found a four star hotel that was adequately priced and very conveniently located.

Upon checking in, however, we felt like we were in a hospital that the world forgot in the ‘70s. The walls were stark and smelled like bleach, the room huge but bare, the bathroom moldy with grey towels, and the beds like sleeping on bricks. We had asked for a double bed but when we got to the room found two cot sized beds on either side of the room – each with its own brick mattress and wooden pillow. I felt like we were living the pious life.

Our driver told us not to trust anyone in the city…the problem…we didn’t really trust him. After our Taj adventure, we arranged for a noon pickup to get a tour of Delhi. First a mosque, then the red fort (which our driver said was closed, but oddly we saw tourists exploring the interiors), then a local shop that he said all his friends shopped at to support Taliban refugees…safe, huh? When we arrived at the shop it was an ornate building with about 5 tourist vans parked out front. Walking in the only people in the shop besides those who worked there were white. Against my better judgment I quickly proceeded to fall into the tourist trap paying too much for shawls – hey, what can you do? Gotta support the refugees, right?

After our whirlwind adventure around Delhi we made it to the airport to sit and wait for our 1hour delayed flight. We made the best of it exploring the coffee shop (which proudly served white bread and ketchup) and then the book store (which was lined with Kama Sutra books of all variations). Arriving back in Pune at 1:30am we breathed a sigh of relief. The honking was still bleeping but not nearly as amplified as in Delhi.

The streets still bustling a bit, and every corner decorated by men relieving themselves. But we were home…

Taj in a blur

We rose at 4:30am to make it to the airport by 6am. From the Pune military weekend airport, we flew into Delhi. Arriving in Delhi we saw a sign indicating our driver was there: “Mr. Amber Taylor” – I’ve quickly learned to overlook the missing /s/ as that’s the least of my worries in India. Getting into the car we drifted into a woozy brain-break and settled in for the 4-hour ride to Agra. Flying up the highway passing camels, rickshaws, cows, and monkeys (it was the monkey holy weekend – yes, there is such a thing) we rocked out to the sound of the horn. I’ve now begun to think of all the car horns as background music orchestrating the journey through India.

Sometimes I feel like people like causing more chaos here. At one point in the road, we arrived at a toll booth. Just four cars back, it took nearly an hour to get through. First, a man running a cart of rice stood for what seemed like days arguing over 50IRS at the toll gate. Then, the “guard” walking around with a hunting shotgun over his arm, started yelling at a driver for getting too close to a rickshaw. Finally, we made it through.

Rolling into Agra our car seemed to be accosted by children and adults alike selling car window covers, peacock feathers, and magazines. Our driver kept calling someone and then turned to us saying “do you need a guide at the Taj?” I replied “no” at the same time Matt replied “yes.” And with that, we had a guide…someone who would eventually test my trust and keep us running around one of the world’s most beautiful sites.

Upon arriving at the Taj grounds, we checked in paying to ‘foreigner’ fee and then got in our respective lines – men and women. Walking through the first gates into the Taj Mahal compound, I was thoroughly frisked leaving me feeling like a 14 year old at a highschool dance. This is the norm here – airports, sites, and tourist traps leave one feeling like they deserve dinner and wine. Walking through the gates, we immediately saw why the Taj is one of the wonders of the world.

Breathtaking.

Made purely of marble, and perfectly symmetrical, the Taj Mahal deserves the millions of pictures snapped monthly. There were people resting in the gardens in front of the building, and sitting against the marble walls. In order to walk into the building, we had to remove our shoes (my feet are still itchy) to show respect.

It’s funny, people remove their shoes, pay homage, and donate money to pay respect but (some) when entering buildings of beauty act as if they’re in a hotel groping at walls and leaning up against pillars and artwork. After being run around the Taj we made it back to the car and eventually back to Delhi.

Ask before you eat

Every morning before I leave for work our “house boy” (I’m not sure what to call him and can’t pronounce or spell his name yet so I’m just following what everyone else here has been saying) prepares fruit, eggs, and toast. I told Matt he needs to take notes. Before leaving for work, I look through Indian menus and ask for the things I can pronounce or have tried before. Lunch has been a different experience entirely.

The past few days I’ve enjoyed going out with co-workers to their local jaunts trying their favorites. I haven’t been ordering but just following the crowd and mimicking their orders. With each dish comes an explanation – “that is chick peas and curry” or “that’s spinach and cheese” or my favorite, “don’t try that. You don’t want to get sick yet.” Today I tried the cafeteria here and lunch turned into “what is the green thing? And the yellow? And the red? And brown?” as I went through the two bowls perched on my plastic plate. Always an experience.

The sweatshop

The heat is starting to kick up so one could say anywhere you go in Pune is a sweat shop. Like New York, most offices and homes are kept cool-close-to-freezing with AC blasting, but outside the humidity alone is cause for change.

We’re looking at vendors to make clothes (specifically t-shirts and jackets) for an upcoming event. Now, I love to shop and have quite a bit of experience in this realm, but this kind of shopping is an experience…to say the least. Typically when I’m thinking of buying a shirt or jacket for myself I think Neimans or Nordstroms (no, I don’t have a “thing” for this particular letter in the alphabet – just for the over-priced beautiful clothes).

For this vendor scoping/shopping excursion, Balaji, Rajan and I made our way across town to a garment factory (one that I’m told is quite small compared to most). Walking in, the entry was quite small – maybe the size of Andrew’s on Polk (gotta tie SF in where I can J ). The walls were lines with t-shirts of all colors and sizes neatly packed in plastic and not so neatly thrown on to shelves. We brought a sample shirt to show the quality and look we’re going for and the vendor felt the cotton. After some back and forth about the texture and quality, the vendor cut a chunk off the shirt to test it (I’ve never heard of a cotton testing machine – ya learn something new every day!) More back and forth and discussion of next steps, and we were invited for a tour. Going through the only other door in the shop (besides the front) we found ourselves in a huge open white room filled with men and women busily working away. There was a line of people cutting cotton, another of people sewing the front of shirts to the back, and so on. The great thing is everyone looked happy and healthy talking to their partners in sewing.

Now I have a whole new perspective on shopping!

The end of the factory story is the vendor is now going to have cotton picked and have cloth made to match the sample we left. Then, he’ll look at quality control options and pricing, then shirt design, then logos. So many steps!

The temple
On our way back to the office, mixed in with donkeys and stalls, we came upon a huge beautiful temple. Well, OK, not beautiful at first site – the outside looked ornate but run down and a bit dirty. Our driver pulled over and motioned for us to go check it out. Walking up to the temple we took our shoes off and then made our way up marble steps. Truly, the temple was a thing of beauty. The walls were sterling silver and the decorations pure gold. There were metal poles guiding folks to the front to pay respects and people were lined up to the back wall.

Walking through the guides two men sitting in front of the Ganesh statue started pounding a table and ushering people to keep going and hurry up. Then, they waved to us and ushered us up to the front. When we got to the front of the line in front of Ganesh, I followed Balaji in paying respects. Then, the two men said something in Hindi and presented me with a coconut wrapped in orange cloth accompanied by a rose tied with grass and two yellow cookies. I thanked them and went to hand it back not really knowing what I was supposed to do (not exactly the kind of thing you learn in business school) and they waved me on. Ok, it sounds cheesy after the story above, but I am blessed. Literally (I think/hope anyhow) and figuratively for just getting to experience this.

A day of extremes!

It’s interesting working in Pune – the mindset and culture bleeds into work. You can see a sort of caste system with the men who run the elevator, the maids (not at my office but at others), and so on. We went to a printing shop this afternoon to look at signs for a conference. Walking in I thought I would pass out – the smell of toxic paint and chemicals wafting out of 4 hot printers. Driving back to the office we passed a family sitting in the dumpster picking through the leftovers. No-one looked twice because this is a normal sight. The gym After work Matt and I went to “Abs” gym.

The gym was nothing like mine at home (no movie screen or old theater chandeliers hanging down) but it was beautiful - modern and clean. Up on the 9th floor of a new building, Abs overlooks the city. There’s an outdoor swimming pool, although I didn’t see anyone swimming in it (just one person walking around the perimeter in a speedo looking at his reflection to see who was watching him), cardio room overlooking the pool, and weights facility surrounded by flat screen TVs. Upon arrival I had to wash my shoes because they don’t allow outdoor shoes in the gym but made an exception as long as I washed the dust off. This turned into a muddy mess making me feel like even more of an odd duck. Hanging in the women’s locker room were tons of saris in all colors. It’s funny, the women walk in in their sari and heels, change into spandex and workout gear, and then out again in saris.

After working out we darted through the obstacle course of cars and tuktuks and made it home just in time for a yellow dish, a green dish, a white dish, and nan (I’m still learning the names of everything else).

Can’t wait for what tomorrow brings…

A whole new world!

I can already feel myself speaking in broken English. We arrived at the guest house to be greeted by a barefoot boy who carried our bags in and started cleaning the kitchen. We tried to introduce ourselves but found it a futile mission – no English. Then, we tried to find out where a good place to eat in town might be – this turned into a game of charades as we were acting out walking, eating, paying, and leaving. Didn’t work.

Finally, we made our way to the main thoroughfare and found a small eatery on the side of the road. Hungrily, I started eating with my fork and spoon (no knife available) with my napkin in my lap. This, I quickly learned from the stares and head shaking, was bad form, so I converted to the “proper” way – eating only with my right hand. It’s messy, but proper.

Matt reminded me of a history class we took in Thailand where we learned the left hand is considered dirty (for reasons that I will not post – just can’t think how to type that discretely) so only the right can be used to eat. This is going to be interesting…

drive from Mumbai to Pune A history lesson

We had a tourist packed day. Following Balaji's advice, we made our way to the cities biggest hot spots: Gateway of India: Constructed to mark the visit of King George V and Queen Mary in 1911 on the occasion of the Delhi Durbar, the Gateway of India also marked the end of British rule in India. The returning British troops marched under this arch while boarding their waiting ships.

Flora Fountain: This famous landmark in Mumbai has a statue of the Roman Goddess of vegetation at the center and was built in memory of the Governor, Henry Bartle Edward Frere.

Chattrapati Shivaji Terminus:Previously called Victoria Terminus, after Queen Victoria, the Empress of India, this grand structure was constructed in 1888. Designed by the architect Frederick William Stevenson, this railway station has been declared a heritage site, for its incredible gothic façade covered with sculptures.

Marine Drive:This landmark beachfront promenade curves along the coast of Mumbai from Malabar Hill to Nariman Point. The streetlights shining alongside the dark sea at night have led to its being called the Queen's Necklace. (you should probably go there in the evening and sit by the seaside)

Chowpatty Beach: At a short distance from the city center, Chowpatty Beach is a suburban beach, which is characterized by busy activity and a carnival atmosphere. Prince of Wales Museum: This famous museum is housed in a colonial building and has an extensive collection of coins, works of art and weapons. My favorite site was on elephant island. There's an image carved in stone of God's wife playing dice. In the image she gets frustrated because after a winning series, she loses. The God says to her "don't give up. To enjoy winning you must also lose." I think this is a great life lesson.

Mumbai analysis
Truly, and I'm not just comparing for comparison sake, Mumbai is similar to San Francisco. It's a Penninsula for one, and tourists migrate to certain areas. SF has polar fleeces for sale in every tourist trap, and Mumbai has enormous balloons. Locals cringe when tourists call SF "Frisco" and here locals cringe at "Bombay." There's the poor(er) area where peoples' eyes say they're in a different world just like the Tenderloin. And, when you're stopped in traffic, children and adults run up to sell you magazines and fans. In SF on South Van Ness men and women accost your car to sell you newspapers that they got from the free bin or show you their latest sign "Why lie - I want a beer. Can I have money?"

School dreams
Wherever you are in life, it's important to be realistically optimistic. I once saw a woman driving in San Jose with blue tinted windows. To me that's a literal depiction of how not to look at the world (unless she was dyslexic and blue film was the color that registered with her brain...for this analogy, I'll vear away from that possibility). At first glance walking around the non-touristy parts of Mumbai, my heart hurt. I want to wash and clothe each child, educate every adult, and give money, food, and shelter to everyone. I still do but looking at helping/fixing/changing the world so immensly is what leaves some people stuck just feeling pained. The truly amazing thing ("rosey colored") is it all just seems to work here. But how can it "work" more comfortably, cleaner, safer, healthier? When the Brittish came to India I bet they saw what they thought was turmoil so they worked to make people speak, drive, act, and dress a certain way. If a western power were to come in now I bet they'd try to get people to drive in the lines, get homeless off the street, and clean up the city fixing buildings, streets, and waterways.

To change something you can make people act or say something immediately with power. It may stick if you continue enforcing instructions or only part of the desired change will stick and when the power is gone, a new sort of mixed behavior will remain. To truly change or just illuminate, you need to educate. A personal example - I assign projects and work includes web projects. When I started I didn't know the difference between HTML and CSS. Until I truly knew the purpose of each (the why) I assigned as I was told to but not knowing why left tons of room for error. When I was teaching, I read a study that young adults in juvy had an 80% chance of not returning if they were educated properly. The education gap? Comprehension. I'm writing this rant because the other night I had a very vivid dream of setting up educational institutions (not necessarily full schools) accross India teaching children health (down to how to brush teeth) and history.

Off to Pune Leaving five stardom, it's time to head to Pune. Our driver has a serious addiction ... with his horn. Because driving is truly organized chaos here, instead of staying in the lines or following any kind of uniformity, people use their horns for everything. Our driver seems to just be resting his hand on the horn only picking it up to push harder. I keep catching myself holding my breath and sucking my stomach in as if that will make the car narrower to squeeze through all the other traffic which our driver is also quite fond of.

Early to explore

We woke this morning at 5:30am ready to explore. Looking outside the sky was a thick grey color – I say thick because the humidity makes the colors bleed into a cloak of fuzzy richness. Grey because the sky never really seems to be blue or black here – only thousands of shades of grey.

The city finally started waking up at 6:30. It’s funny, there are tons of potential isms here - odd happenings that are anywhere from sad to humorous when you step back and just take them in, but the funny ones all have to do with the tourists. Just as the sun was coming up a group of glowing white tourists gathered in a circle in the park below facilitated by an Indian teacher.

The group started flailing their arms and legs in some variation of yoga and then moved on to standing perfectly still and grunting. Not like any yoga I’ve ever seen, but then again, I’ve never seen yoga in India. The take on yoga reminded my of Washington Square in China town in the early morning – groups of people standing around pushing their arms forward, kicking, and grunting.

... later ... go time

The flight It’s finally time – time to leave the streets and stories of San Francisco and head to many more stories in India. We got to the airport at 1pm – plenty of time to browse duty free before our 4:30pm flight. Airports have plenty of isms in and of themselves – corporate jet setters, airport singles (sometimes I wonder if they’re even flying anywhere at all), families, friends, and any number of combination of travelers.

Finally, boarding time and we were off. The first 10-hour leg of the flight was relatively storyless. The stuardesses kept joking that passengers could give Valentines gifts, money, and chocolates but the rest of the plane seemed quite mellow.

The haircut experience

Getting a haircut in San Francisco is an experience. Matt frequents a salon called “Rose’s” on Polk St. and gets a great deal so I thought I’d try it too. Although neither Matt or I could understand a word Rose says, we both sat there nodding and smiling uttering “hm,” and “oh, yes, I know!” where it seemed appropriated.

Taco Tuesday in the city

When we were in college we used to go to a local dive bar for cheap tacos and expensive beer every Tuesday. We continue to ‘celebrate’ taco Tuesday at Nick’s Crispy Tacos – a legendary San Francisco taco spot. Weekly Linzy and Steeve walk over the hill and Matt and I make our way up the street to congregate at Nick’s for chips that are just greasy enough and salsa that is inevitably gone by the end of the night.

Nick’s is a funny place – usually there are piñatas mixed in with chandeliers hanging around the restaurant. Tonight the nemo and cowboy piñatas were replaced with hanging hearts and cupids.

The best part of Nick’s is on weekends the restaurant closes and Nick’s turns into Rouge – a shishi dance club and bar. The place is filled with red velvet booths and odd paintings of hardly dressed women.

Again, the perfect San Francisco dinner spot.

Tomorrow we’re off to India so I have a feeling taco Tuesdays will have to be put on hold for a few weeks. I may try to roll my curry in naan just to keep the routine alive…we’ll see.

...later

I love days like today. It’s a Monday, so that’s not where the love part was coming in. But it was the perfect San Francisco field trip day. We’re looking at venues for our user conference party and ventured to the SF Giants ballpark. Now, while I don’t love sports, I do love San Francisco – and the ballpark is one of the veins of the city that seem to pump life through the 49 miles. Heading into the corporate offices, we passed posters and relics from old games and old images of the ballpark. After talking business, we walked through three doors and found ourselves in the private boxes of the ballpark.

Ah to be rich and really get to see a game here…then again, during the meeting I’m the one who thought baseball games were 4-innings. Oy. But, I can certainly still enjoy the sushi stands and wine booths inside the stadium walls. After the ballpark I “enjoyed” a field trip of another sort – the bus. I met Linzy in the Gap building where her office is. After feeling thoroughly underdressed we made our way to the bus stop where we got lucky and were the 4th on the bus – hence, we got seats. Less than 5-minutes later and 30-people fuller the bus was making its way through North Beach. Each stop brought a new class of worker – first there was there were the retailers, then the PR folks, then the financiers, and finally the temp-types. Getting off posed a new threat with people pushing and falling trying to make their way to the door. At least this bus ride wasn’t accompanied by the crazies Matt encountered on the bus on his way through China town…another story for another time.

Isms are spreading

The great thing about San Francisco is everyone gets to experience San Franciscisms. People just need to keep their eyes open and minds open and enjoy the isms when they happen. It's a pitty to see people making their way through the city oblivious to all the comical (and not so comical) happenings. But then again, these people are often the ones at the heart of our San Franciscisms.

Molly, one of my favorite co-workers, experienced a San Franciscism the other week. She voiced hers louder than on a hidden blog, and is now famous... SFGate.com Leah Garchik Leah Garchik Monday, February 12, 2007 More on the lifestyle beat: Molly Tyson and her son stopped by to see the labyrinth at Grace Cathedral and saw one woman "walking briskly through the maze, talking on her cell phone, heels clicking as she knocked off each lap," followed by a man and small boy talking quietly. "I made it to the center!" said the cell phone talker when she got there, to which the boy replied, "It's not a winning game, Mom." The woman "looked sheepishly at me," said Tyson, and said, "I guess I'm a little competitive."

Bubble

Just over the bridge from San Francisco is a bubble. This bubble is filled with outer perfection – perfect people, perfect cars, and perfect locale. Despite some of the pretentiousness and gloss, next to San Francisco, the bubble, otherwise known of as Marin, is hands down my favorite place in the world.

Driving from San Francisco through Marin to San Anselmo, the cream of the crop in Marin in my book, takes you over the Golden Gate bridge, past the bikers going up to the animal sanctuary or down to Sausalito, through the rainbow tunnel, and through Mill Valley, Larkspur, Ross, and Kentfield. Each town has its own charm and its own brand of people, just like San Francisco. Lisa and I went hiking with mom today. We stopped at her house, passing all the Lexus SUVs and BMWs (also known of as basic Marin wheels) and pulling up in front of her new picket fence – the fence that supposedly fends off the hundreds of deer that roam the town hungry for someone’s freshly planted garden.

Finally, we made our way to Phoenix Lake – one of Marin’s many hidden treasures – a beautiful lake in the hills of Ross surrounded by nothing but trails and trees. It’s funny walking in Marin – in San Francisco you can be anonymous walking with your iPod blaring and staying in your own private world. Walking around the lake everyone we passed said, “hello,” “hi,” “good morning,” “beautiful day,” and a number of other friendly greetings chanted by Marinites checking out each other and each others fancy dogs.

On the way home we stopped at Whole Foods (aka, whole paycheck) for the freshest, most organic, prettiest produce around. The aisles of Whole Foods are like a pick up zone with people looking in each others’ carts to see who has the bee pollen that would go perfectly with their flax oil. Beautiful yuppies stop to exchange baby stories or promotion gloating in the aisles. I of course just want to run through, grab what I need, and make it back to the city.

After just a day in Marin I feel fresh. But, it was nice driving back over the bridge and into San Francisco. Along the water the usual crowd are running, flying kites, and flexing for each other while on the other side of the street housecleaners and painters are hard at work in the $5m homes getting ready for the next onset of rain. Home is just a few obstacles away – flying by the Rent-a-go-carts (the cars that tourists rent with an audio tour of San Francisco – the same cars to look out for because you know a tourist who’s not used to SF streets, doesn’t drive fast enough, and doesn’t know where they’re going, is behind the wheel), a quick double park pickup stop at the fluff ‘n fold, and lucking out getting a spot right in front of our building, and I’m home.

Music to my ears

If San Francisco had a soundtrack, it would be the most eclectic disk of music ever. Walking to the gym I listened to a Blue Grass band (The Be Good Tanyas) and the whole street seemed ready for a hoedown. Walking home Red Hot Chili Peppers’ latest album was blaring through my iPod and everyone on Polk seemed to be walking to the beat of Californication. Each area in the city could have its own soundtrack – Bjork for the Tenderloin, Garden State for Presidio, and DMB for Pac Heights.

The smells of the city are almost as varied as the sounds that would make it a perfect musical. In the 3-blocks it takes to get to Crunch, my senses become overwhelmed by Chinese, Thai, Californian, and Italian cuisines. Walking up through my building offers the same sensory overload. Floor one is Vietnamese, floor two Filipino, floor three just smells like dog, and then there’s ours – take out. We’ve now gotten into the Polk St. rhythm – takeout from Aux Delices on Thursdays (when just Matt or I go in, they ask where the other is).

Wine buys from William Cross – Honig almost every time. In a fast paced city, we’ve quickly become “usuals” – usuals to our favorite eateries, usuals to the market, and usuals just ambling along the street. It’s funny, we don’t know many people who live on Polk, but when we walk down the street we recognize more than half. Topping the familiarity, when a non-Russian-hiller ambles to our street, they’re instantly recognizable. You can almost pick the neighborhood they rolled in from. And when non-North Bayers and non-Californites are around it’s as if they’re wearing a bright orange hats saying “I’m from out of town!”

I wonder if when we move we’ll have some invisible sign that says “San Francisco snob” illuminating our foreignness.

Stamps and visas

I always pictured Embassies to be plush royal looking places. Today I finally made it to the Indian Embassy and found this thinking to be completely backwards. Driving through the city I made it past the Marina, through the Presidio, down Arguello, and into Presidio Heights where I parked in front of what looked like a small house with a lot of Indian pride. The Indian Embassy is only marked by the Indian flag hanging over the door.

I arrived at the Embassy right when it opened – 9am – thinking my being prompt would mean I got through quickly. Upon opening the door I found this was not a cushy office, but more like a cross between a butcher shop and doctor’s office. The linoleum floors and florescent lights inside the Embassy amplified the fact that being prompt doesn’t necessarily mean fast. It seemed 55 (to be exact – I know because the number I pulled from the dispenser said 56) people were ahead of me. After waiting in one line to get my passport photos stapled to my Visa form, I waited in another line to have the form signed, and yet another to pay. Then, 1-hour later and $60 poorer, I was free and now am free to go in and out of India as many times as I please in the next 6-months.

If my expectation of the Embassy was so flawed, I think I may be in for a rude awakening when I actually make it to India.

Raining

The rain is raining all around
It falls on field and tree
It rains on the umbrella here
And on the ships at sea
(ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON) I

didn’t know who wrote that poem so had to Google it - I learned it for a recital in the 2nd grade. At the time this was one of life’s biggest fetes. Every time the sky opens up, Stevenson’s words fill my head. It’s raining here in San Francisco and it feels like the streets and city are being washed clean. Driving through the tenderloin is a completely different experience as the streets are empty. Where did everyone go? Up and over Nob Hill on the slick streets.

The usual traffic is stopped in the streets and there are the usual double parked trolley cars and buses in the road to make an obstacle course. It seems like people particularly like the 2-lane streets for double parking. I must admit, I’m guilty of this too having run into Andrew’s this evening to get dinner and leaving my car, emergency lights flashing, double parked in front of another car in the bus stop. I justify it because it was right in front of a police car – so that must mean it’s ok. Right? Driving down Lombard is an eerie experience without people stopped on Lombard or getting out of tour buses getting ready to take pictures.

So here’s to lightening, and here’s to storms! And here’s to never letting SF fit into norms…

Standard?

There are so many San Francisco characters. In some towns/cities/areas of the country you can pretty much expect a standard type. Not a Stepford Wife phenomena, but a mannerism of people. Growing up we commented Marin was filled with Marinites driving BMWs (also known of as basic Marin wheels), living in beautiful houses, and playing by many of the supposed tos in life (perfect job, perfect house, perfect family…from the outside). Marin had and has it’s handful of characters, but none deviate(d) from the Marin norm too much.

My old boss used to say that “a fish starts to stink at the head.” She learned this from years of working in a restaurant, but the same phrase rings true for an organization – a business or a residential area. Our Mayor doesn’t stink – not at all – but he’s definitely different.

Gavin Newsom, probably one of the youngest mayors around, is now admitting infidelity and recovering from alcohol abuse. Hopefully someday soon, though, he’ll be known for all the other things he’s done for SF – taking action around gay rights, homelessness, education, and more. OK, enough politics. On the drive home we encountered a character of a different sort. Many characters, actually, but one who stood out.

Driving off the 280 and up Taylor St. we came to a sudden stop – not from a light, stop sign, or slow in traffic, but from one of the many people who run across or just into the street seemingly chasing something (voices, cars, curb-side change…who knows). This stop was because a man dressed in what looked like a cloak crossed with a black trench-coat (a cross between Dracula and Tupac) was standing smack in the middle of the road staring. Just staring. I wonder if he’s thinking about the stories of San Francisco as I am, but through a different lens. If he is, I wonder what the characters in his story are like.

Scenic route

Monday’s are always a day for re-entry. Re-entry to work after a too-short weekend and re-entry to San Francisco. We didn’t leave town this weekend but sometimes after being San Franciscofied all weekend and then commuting to high-tech town and back is more eye-opening. You become immune over time to the sights and smells and a mini-break makes the heart grow fonder.

The drive home Today was a carpool day so Daniel drove. After someone at work thought my new car was a mini-van (it’s a CRV thank you very much) it’s always a treat to go in style – BMW. The drive is typically pretty clear until you get within 10-miles of the city and today was nothing different. It’s always an event driving home, though, going past all the high-tech buildings, some still vacant from the crash, in the Silicon Valley, then past the always serene Half Moon Bay and into the traffic that always exists by the airport.

Exiting the freeway is the real adventure as we shoot into San Francisco and into the heart of the Tenderloin. Today there were the usual suspects on the street – a man yelling monkey noises at cars, transvestites, and a gamut of other characters. The gym Crunch is always entertaining. My gym is in an old movie theater that still has a balcony and movie screen. The balcony houses the cardio machines and the screen is not-so-discreetly hovering over the cardio floor where there’s always some new belly dancing or ROTC class going on.

Monday’s the gym always feels full with people working off the mass quantities they ate and drank over the weekend. I usually go straight for the elliptical machines as it feels like they do the workout for you. Today these were full so I took the bike instead. Typically people hover behind machines waiting for them to open up but I always feel like that’s wasting workout time. So instead, I watched jeleously as the hoverers all got the “good” machines. On the floor the ROTC class was in full force. Linzy and I continue to say we’re going to try this class, but something about the man with arms bigger than his legs in camo pants scares me off. That and 1.5 hours of gruling workout – without a class I can leave after 30 minutes and no-one is the wiser. The walk home The streets of San Francisco always seem to have some new treat on them. In fact, we got our first couch off the street.

It was in the Marina, so it must be posh…or it lived through thousands of crazy parties. Whatever it was, it was cheap. We saw it on a Saturday but were car-less until the next day so, to insure no-one slept on the couch (or did anything else on it for that matter) that night, we carried all the cushions home. The next day we picked it up and drove home – right down Lombard. I think that picture must be in hundreds of tourists’ albums now. Tonight was no different with what looked like someone’s entire living room up for grabs on the corner of Polk and Union. Home again home again Whenever I get home from the gym I take the stairs – I feel like it’s a cop-out taking the elevator after going to the gym. Also, there’s a dog in our building that pees in the elevator and the smell is enough to make someone pass out.

After running up the four flights of stairs and through the emergency exit door to our house I’m greeted by blaring Russian folk music. Our neighbors are at it again blasting music and singing along. Right now they’re stuck on part of the song that says “cause it’s the best” and then fading into Russian lyrics I can’t understand. The blog Like many others, I’ve started quite a few free blogs that have long since been forgotten. Either I forgot the URL or I lost writing momentum. Since this one is new I’m still in the honeymoon phase of writing. In fact, I’m thinking blog-thoughts (ala ‘oo – there’s something a bit weird. Can’t wait to write about that!) Matt says I’m writing my blog all wrong. “It’s not supposed to be about your day,” he says. “You’re supposed to blog about random things that people will read so you can get advertisers and make lots of money.” And a San Francisco day is not random?! Lucky for me Matt has to read my blog. As do my parents. It’s an unwritten rule – falls under the love law. Always an adventure…

Ism people

It seems the city mellowed out a bit this weekend.Maybe it’s due to the Super Bowl and people have been prepping pizza, chips, and beer for the 6-hour shouting and cheering fest. Whatever it is, there are plenty of isms to think back on to continue my rant. So, I’ll defer to a long-standing San Franciscism.

Down the street from us, near Fisherman’s Warf, there’s a man Bay Area residents fondly call “bush man.” No, he’s not a devout follower of our President.In fact, I don’t know his political views or any other views of his at all. The only sound I’ve ever heard him make is “EEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIOOOOOAAAAAAAIIIIIEEEEK!!!!”

Bush man sits by a garbage can day in and day out and watches the tourists walk by. He never gets scolded for staring because most passers by don’t even know he’s there. He hides himself behind a cluster of branches and crouches down so no-one can see him and, when a walker would least expect it, jumps out and yells. I’ve only had it happen to me once but that was enough to shave two or three years off my life from fear. Sometimes bush man attracts a crowd of eager onlookers waiting for his next victim. It’s like public installment art watching the reactions of startled victims. I’m sure bush man stories are being relayed across the country and globe.

Stole my heart...and identity...and bum

The world is filled with isms - some bad, some good. If we can keep our eyes open and just experience the isms happening all around us, life will be more entertaining. My friends and I coined the term "San Franciscism" which we use constantly when walking around the streets of Russian Hill and North Beach.

Before I moved to San Francisco, Linzy lived in a house full of boys in Russian Hill. I came to visit often as I was looking for a job in the city. One week I slept over in her shoebox sized room. In the morning we got up early (because I had an interview and Linzy had work) and went to get a coffee. After drinking too much coffee way to slowly, I went running back up to Linzy's house to get ready. Linzy was 10-feet behind me so I left the door open. When Linzy got home she shut it only for one of her roommates to open it again. Why am I telling you about the door you may wonder...

When I was finally ready for the interview I went to the living room to grab my purse. It wasn't on the couch where I remembered having left it, but I thought I was just having a nervous moment and proceeded to search the living room. Still, nowhere to be found. I then proceeded to pull the entire house apart room by room wondering if I threw it down in some haze of coffee and interview angst. No where. It was getting close to interview time so Linzy loaned me money and I hopped in a cab.

Right before walking in the door of Chronicle Books (the nerve inducing interview) I received a call from the SFPD. "Ma'am," a smoke filled voice said, "Ma'am, we have something we think is yours here in our station house. Did you lose something this morning?" "I don't think so," I stupidly replied, not even putting the purse and the call together. After all, how could they find my purse in Linzy's house? That would be just too big brother. "Ma'am we have a purse here with a prescription inside - the pharmacy said it's yours. Are you sure?" Odd, I thought. But maybe I had left it in Starbucks...regardless, thank goodness for drugs - they double as tracking devices. "Wow!" I said with a sudden bolt of recognition. "Yes - this is great news." The officer gave me the location of the station and said to come by in the afternoon. After the interview I made my way to the Nob Hill station to collect my things. Upon arrival I was greeted with 10-pages to fill out, double sided, reporting the 'purse loss.' When my hand was thoroughly cramped, and memory drained from trying to piece together the happenings that morning, the officer gave me my lost purse. Inside was the prescription, some gum, and...no wallet. The officer said my purse had been found under a car. He assumed someone stole it from Linzy's living room when the door was open and that someone was probably a man. He was going through the purse and as soon as he found the goods (my wallet) he threw the purse under a car so as not to look too odd in a city carrying a purse. A week later Linzy said her roommate's bike was stolen out of the living room in the same fashion. Two weeks later Linzy's neighbors said they saw an older man on her stairs looking in the window of the house. Three weeks later Linzy and I saw the same man in front of her apartment - about 80 years old, bald but for a few hairs, short, missing a few teeth, and dirty. I walked up to the man and said, "excuse me sir, have you seen an orange wallet?" Thought it was worth a try anyways. His reply? The man started smacking his lips and jumping backwards up the hill. Odd, very odd. An ism none the less. The story ended with my identity getting stolen and the FBI showing up at my new job (no, not Chronicle books - I blame the none-hire on my being so shaken that morning) my first day of work.

It turns out whoever was the end recipient of my wallet enjoyed my social security card and credit cards by ordering more credit cards and participating in a year-long stint of mail fraud. Great. Last year Linzy and I were walking to coffee down Columbus and a man wearing a hula skirt was singing Christmas carols and playing a violin in front of a candy store on the boarder of China town. A definite San Francisco moment - a San Franciscism.

Two weeks ago Lisa and I were walking to coffee before yoga. We were wearing spandex - not a common occurrence but we just had a bit of time before yoga. We walked into Starbucks and a man walked in right behind us. It was too crowded inside so we turned around and walked out. The man followed - not too random seeing as it was so crowded. Lisa and I started walking up the street and the man followed. It was starting to get weird. I was getting creeped out and said "look Lis, a residential zone - turn now!" We turned up a residential street, and the man followed. Still creepy. Then I said, "look Lis, and apartment - turn and stop now!" The man kept walking. Lisa and I made our way back up to Chestnut and went to Walgreens to get house cleaning supplies (and get off the street before class). Once inside we noticed the man was again right behind us. He followed us up and down the aisles. We got in line, and the man was right behind us. Lisa turned around and noticed something odd (ok, odder) the man was carrying a small dog bag and out of it was sticking a video camera. Red light on. EW! The terrible thing is we were both so frozen we didn't know what to say to the man so we paid and took off as quickly as possible. I know, you might be reading this and think "why didn't they yell at him." Remember, we were frozen. As soon as I got home from yoga, I got online and started searching "San Francisco butts" and "bum cam". But, although this was a creepy odd event, it definitely was an ism.

My past travels have taken me to Greece, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Israel, Egypt, Switzerland, Germany, Belgium, Sweden, France, Mexico, Costa Rica, two stints in London (one working, one studying), and Thailand...and a few places in the US (some of which felt like a foreign country. Travels started before I can remember going to Ibiza with my mother - and continuing to go but not remember everything in my teen years. Then, in high-school I was blessed to be invited by my track coach to go on a trip called "Arete" for which I and 7 other track team-mates studies religion and philosophy prior to visiting historical and iconic spots all over Europe.

I remember Arete daily. With all these travels you’d think I’d be ready for whatever life and travel brings. We’ll see what happens in the next chapter. Matt and I are getting ready to go to India in 11 days. I'm going for work and I'll be there for a month, and Matt is coming to help me get over the culture shock (and of course see India) for 2 weeks. We'll start in Mumbai and then make our way to Pune where TIBCO has a house. Here, I can't wait to see, experience, and be part of a whole new series of isms.

To be continued...