Polarity

My first attempt at a short film.

For a better quality version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-sk71BrhYc&feature=youtu.be

What San Francisco means to me

I watched the Giants game tonight, where we rallied in the sixth to score three runs and pull ahead of the Cardinals, 6-4. I watched as our bullpen shut the Cardinals out, all the way until the top of the ninth, when one final swing blew past one final pitch and the game was over. Tony Bennett’s voice echoed throughout the stadium as a camera panned over flattering shots of San Francisco, which aren’t hard to come by. As I witnessed this glorious scene, I found myself getting choked up.

Nothing makes me feel nostalgic quite like a Giants game. I’ve been watching the Giants ever since I can remember. My family would take me to games when they played at Candlestick Park, which will soon be demolished. I remember when they built AT&T park, and that whole area around the Caltrain station lit up with life. Apartment buildings shot up, bars and restaurants opened, in a neighborhood that was once filled with empty lots and warehouses. I remember listening to almost every game on my clock radio, because our family didn’t have cable. I remember going out to the ballpark on the weekend, sometimes by myself, to watch the Giants games from the free spot, behind right field. I remember having my heart broken in 2002 when they Giants finally made it to, and then lost the World Series.

Sometimes I get upset or jealous because as hardcore of a fan as I am, I have never been to a postseason Giants game. Ticket prices shot up after they won the World Series in 2010 and then again in 2012. I could never justify spending the money on tickets. Yet I would watch as wealthy coworkers, and acquaintances splurged on a postseason game, only having been fans since the first World Series win.

The Giants have become great, and so they have more fans, which means higher ticket prices. However, it also means a greater budget for the Giants, meaning better facilities, and better players. So I feel like I should be happy for the team and what it’s become. Isn’t it what every baseball team and fan strives and hopes for? 

The energy around the Giants these past five years only mirrors the vibrancy I feel in the city itself. What was once a gritty, diverse city, is becoming more polished and inaccessible.

I grew up in what is now Duboce Triangle. When I was a kid, there weren’t so many neighborhoods. I always said that I grew up in the Castro, and I did. Every year my parents would bring me to the Gay Pride Parade. I would fashion a sign with washable marker on a piece of poster board, filled with rainbows and happy same-gender couples. I was always one of few children there and would usually receive a plethora of candy, balloons, and general smiles and “aren’t you adorable”s. It was one of my favorite days of the year, next to Halloween and Christmas.

I went to public school all the way through college. As a white girl, I was a minority in every school I attended. I was picked on a lot in elementary school and middle school. I found my groove and my lifelong friends in high school.

I grew up in the Castro, but spent most of my time in the Sunset, where my middle school, high school, swim team, and almost all of my friends lived. I ate a lot of Dim Sum and boba, even though I didn’t really like boba.

I didn’t go to the mission as a teenager. Although when I was a kid, my parents would take me there sometimes for Mexican food or paletas. Dolores park was on old beat-up wooden playground, that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere near after sunset. It was a popular spot to buy and sell drugs, as it is today, but the clientele was very, very different.

I never went to house parties - I thought they only existed in movies. I swam, did my homework, listened to Giants games, and hung out with friends, when I had time.

It was a happy childhood in a wonderful city - a city that I became suddenly nostalgic for when I went away to college. As beautiful and fun as San Diego was, I missed the fog, the Chinese food, and Muni. I missed my friends and family and everything that is San Francisco. I spent every Summer, Winter and Spring break at home, where I was happiest.

Now I’ve been living on my own in the City for several years. I currently live with my boyfriend in a small one bedroom in the Richmond, but we’re not sure how much longer we can afford it. We both want to eventually move somewhere a little bigger, and maybe even a little cheaper.

So now the secret’s out, about how wonderful San Francisco is. I almost feel like I found it out too late, that just as I began to truly realize how dear this city is to my heart, I am being pushed out of it. But like with the Giants, shouldn’t I be happy to see my city thrive and flourish?

I worry, just like many longtime San Franciscans, that this influx of young money won’t change the city for the better. That it will become more homogenous and therefore more boring. That it will become what so many people treat it as: a playground for the wealthy.

What I have to understand is that change is progressive and will eventually be for the better, even if not immediately. Only when a city becomes stagnant, does it suffer. My relationship with San Francisco is like that with a lifelong friend. We’ve grown together, and changed together - heck, I even got a job in the tech industry for her. But friendships change over time, and I might not be able to keep up with the rising costs. It is heartbreaking, but as is life. No matter where I end up, San Francisco will always be in my heart. But I will not leave my heart in San Francisco - that will stay with me, open and ready to love wherever I end up next.

*I will, however, be a Giants fan until I die.

Sheryl Wouldn't Quit

I’ve competed in countless races in my lifetime, most of them swim races, but also a handful of runs, regattas and a triathlon. I like to race, but I like to win even more. However, the issue with being an adult is that most races (that anyone cares about anyway) are running races, and in spite of my athletic past, I am a slow runner.

I competed in a 5k* with co workers a year ago. Being competitive and athletic, I psyched myself out, giving myself lofty goals and looking at everyone as competition. I told myself that I will at least break 30 minutes - that was my minimum goal. When the race started, I burst across the starting line, passing people like a gazelle, graceful and quick. When I thought I was nearly finished, I passed the 1 mile marker. My heart dropped and I slowed down significantly, as not to have a heart attack. I ended up finishing in over 30 minutes, as I chugged across the finish line, exhausted and defeated.

I had competed in a half marathon and an olympic distance triathlon, both of which were nowhere near as painful as this 5k had been. I realized that I had no idea how to pace myself for such a short distance and ended up trying to sprint the whole thing. I was determined to devise a better strategy for next year.

The next year came around, and a month before I decided to try to train. I cursed myself for not training sooner, but made the most of the time I had left, going on runs several mornings each week.

When the race day approached, I felt more prepared than I had the last year. Last year I was too confident, thinking that a 5k was nothing. This year I knew better. I drank a cup of coffee and ate a snack a couple of hours before, and then headed to race with co workers. I started to psych myself out again, but each time I got a little too intense, I reminded myself that I need to take it easy - I can’t sprint the whole thing.

We got to the starting line and the buzzer went off. I again, started at a quick pace, passing people as I bounded along. After a couple minutes, I reminded myself of last year and slowed down. I’d speed up for a while, and then slow down. Then when I felt that I could, I would speed up again. Things seemed to be going OK until about halfway through the race I found that I wasn’t able to speed up again. “It’s OK,” I told myself. “It’s better to keep a steady pace than to kill youself on the third mile.” It was during the last mile that my stomach started to really bother me. I slowed down even more when I would start to feel queasy. “It’s OK. You’re OK.” I kept telling myself.

As the last half mile came around, I wanted to walk. My stomach was not feeling any better. Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, which I was in the middle of reading at the time, came into my head. I thought of her trek across the Pacific Crest Trail and her strength and perseverance inspired me momentarily. “Cheyrl wouldn’t quit!” I thought to myself and pushed on. I could see the finish line straight ahead of me when someone I knew passed me slowly on my right. “Cheryl wouldn’t let that girl pass her!” I thought. So I passed her back seconds before crossing the finish line. Then, roughly 10 feet from the finish line I barfed all over my shoes. Then I barfed on them again and again. It’s a right of passage, I told myself, as I was escorted to the medical tent. You can’t claim to be an athlete and never barf during a workout. Although I didn’t expect to be 27, running a casual 5k when it happened.

I rode my bike home, trying not to go over too many potholes, as my stomach whirled and ached. When I got home, I immediately rinsed the puke off of my shoes and clothes and took a shower. Then I opened my computer and checked my time - I had slipped under 30 minutes with a 29:45. The satisfaction I felt in that moment reminded me of why I put myself through torture. “Next year I’m going to break 28 minutes,” I told myself as my stomach gurgled painfully. I pushed my computer aside and quickly ran to the bathroom.

*It was actually slightly more than a 5k. Technically it was 3.35 miles, which is a 5.4k

Actual photo of me, seconds before barfing

Lulu

My second grade teacher, Mrs. Susie, was an older woman with a raspy, smoker's voice. She dressed in gold and pearls, and once left a cigarette butt on my desk. Her room always smelled musty, like a mix of stale cigarette smoke and grandma's perfume.

When we were learning cursive, she gave us a homework assignment to write our name 50 times. I came home, complaining to my mom that my 8-letter name will take me much longer to write than the names of the other students. My mom offered the brilliant idea of writing my nickname, "Lulu," instead of my full name. Realizing that this would save me half the time, I agreed, and wrote "Lulu" 50 times in cursive.

Mrs. Susie was unpredictable, and would often punish kids for the most ridiculous crimes. We once were told to draw a picture from a scene in chapter 10 of The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. I missed the chapter break, and read all the way through to chapter 12.  Without realizing it, I ended up drawing a picture from chapter 11. I was particularly proud of this picture; I had drawn a king with his hand wrapped around a sceptre. When I turned it in, I expected praise for my impressive attempt at drawing something in 3D. Instead, she took one look at it and yelled at me for drawing something from the wrong chapter. She sent me to my seat, forced me to erase the entire drawing, and told me draw something from chapter 10 on the same sheet. I cried silently as I erased my masterpiece.

Because of this experience, I half expected her to yell at me when I turned in my nickname, which I had never mentioned, written 50 times. Instead, she said in her raspy voice "Lulu! That's adorable! Why didn't you tell me that was your nickname?" I hadn't told her, because I wasn't particularly fond of that name and preferred to be called "Lorraine." For the rest of the year she called me "Lulu." She was the only person in my life to consistantly call me that name. Family members and close friends referred to me as "Lu." Everyone else called me "Lorraine."

Every time she said my name, I wanted to ask her to please call me Lorraine. Yet, it was my own  fault that she now knew of this nickname. I couldn't admit to her that I actually didn't like being called "Lulu," since that would reveal that I had been lazy on that one homework assignment. She also became somewhat nicer to me after she started calling me Lulu. Saying the name seemed to give her some odd satisfaction. To this day, I still don't know if the name "Lulu" actually made her smile, or if that smile was a devious, knowing smile, deriving satisfaction from the constant punishment I bestowed upon my lazy self.

The Art of Sleeping in the Sun

When I packed my bags to go to college, Jake was confused by the commotion; he didn’t understand what it all meant.

In the early days, he would sleep in my room with me every night. I eventually couldn’t deal with his midnight cries for freedom and had to evict him. On special occasions I let him back in at night, usually when I was lonely or sad. He would cheer me up with his affections, never holding a grudge.

Sometimes Jake would get mad at us. When we went on family vacations, he would showcase his feelings by leaving little smelly surprises for us all around the house. He could only be mad for so long though, and would usually forgive us after a full meal and some headscratching.

When I came back from college for winter break, I let him sleep in my room again. We spent a lot of time together; he would follow me around the house from room to room, until I offered him a lap to lie on. He was still young and would sometimes grow tired of my lap after a few misplaced scratches. He would let me know this with a soft nip, before bolting away to the next room over. Then he’d stop and look back at briefly, before continuing on his way.

When I packed to go back to college after winter break, he jumped in to my suitcase and sat on top of my clothes. I tried to coax him out, and for the first time ever, he hissed at me. He now understood what the packing meant, and he didn’t like it.

We had loving nicknames for him, many included the word “fat.” At 14 pounds, he was a big guy. My mom bought him expensive diet food, which he quickly grew tired of. Still young and surprisingly nimble for his size, he hopped over fences into other yards and ate from neighbor cat’s bowls. He only grew larger. I would laugh every time he squeezed through our tiny cat door, legs dangling behind him, as he pulled his way through.

He started losing weight, and we found out it was because he had a tumor on his thyroid gland. He was about 14 at this point, getting a little older, but still young at heart. We switched his food again to an even more expensive special food that supposedly starved the tumor. Thankfully, it worked and he gained some weight back. He was Jake again.

College came and went and the economy crashed. I, like many recent grads, moved back in with my parents. Jake and I were best friends again. This time, he was older and calmer. He didn’t nip me anymore when I scratched him in the wrong place. He was more patient with me, and could spend hours on my lap. He sat with me as I chugged through one job application after another.

We would sometimes go outside together and hang out in the backyard. He was different with me outside. He treated me like the parent hanging out too long near their kid's middle school. Outside, he was in his element, in his jungle. He would roll around in a patch of grass, munch on some greens, chase a bird. He never sat on my lap outside.

I finally found a job and moved out on my own. I’d come by and visit as often as I could, but would usually only see Jake briefly.

Last month my mom asked if I would housesit for her. “Don’t worry if you can’t!” She said. “Tony’s friend said he could do it.” That weekend was not a very convenient weekend for me to housesit, but I thought of Jake, now 16, and realized that I didn’t care if it was convenient.

He slept with me every night again, and spent every evening parked on my lap. We even went outside for a bit. Although his joints were old and his muscles weak. He stood at the top of the stairs that lead to the garden, looking down, perhaps reminiscing about his youth. Those stairs were once a breeze to descend, now he may never play in the garden again.

He drank out of every water glass I poured for myself. He hopped on the kitchen table when I wasn’t looking. He acted like the misbehaving kitten that I knew. Though he did these things slowly, with much contemplation.

When my mom called me to tell me that wasn’t doing well, it had only been a couple weeks since I had housesat. Our whole family went with him to the vet. He had lost even more weight, and his hair had started to fall out in clumps. The vet said that his tumor had likely turned into cancer.

My dad held him as he breathed his last breath. He left this world on a warm lap, with his family around him, loving him, petting him, missing him already.

I thought back to the day when my dad and I passed those SPCA cages in the Castro. My dad convinced me to go to church that day, promising that I could eat as many baked goods as I want after the service. It was because I couldn’t say no to a free brownie that I stumbled across the cage with three adorable kittens. A couple, who was also admiring these kittens decided to adopt two of them. The SPCA volunteer disturbed the huddled sibling pile by pulling the two sisters out and leaving the little brother all alone. I told my dad that we couldn’t leave that little kitten all by himself. He would be lonely without us. Who knew that in the end, I would be the one feeling lonely without him?

Just Friends

Memories of my trip to Seoul years ago are all incredibly fond. I rarely remember the panic I felt when Courtney left, and I had to spend the next three days traveling alone. I often forget about how near tears I was when my cab got lost in the middle of nowhere and I almost missed seeing my favorite band play at a concert festival (the whole reason I went to Korea in the first place).

What I do remember is the two-hour long talk I had with my couchsurfing host when I first arrived, the friends I made at the concert festival, and the night I drank moccli (fermented kimchi and rice) on the roof of an abandoned building with my new best friend, who also happened to be my couchsurfing host.

These were the memories that I had in mind when I decided to extend my work trip to Toronto to travel by myself. The first few days were a whirlwind; I spend most of the day and evening with co-workers, either working or going out for meals and drinks. They’re great people and I enjoyed spending time with them, but I was somewhat excited for everyone to leave, so I could venture out alone.

Thursday came around, and most of my coworkers left. For my first night alone, I decided to go to a Toronto Blue Jays game. It initially wouldn’t let me buy a single ticket, telling me that I “must purchase at least two tickets” (I should have heeded this warning). I finally found a lone ticket, next to taken seats on either side, and purchased it.

When I got to the game, I squeezed in between a new couple, and a group of rowdy girlfriends. Both groups smiled at me kindly when I sat down. To me, the smile looked like pity and maybe even confusion - “why is this perfectly normal looking girl sitting all alone?”

It wasn’t miserable, but it wasn’t great. My love for the game wasn’t enough to make up for the awkwardness and loneliness that I felt at every run. High fives were distributed as I sat pensively. I left a little early and grabbed a late dinner with a coworker who was still around until Friday morning. “I’m glad you could get dinner!” She said. “Otherwise, I’d just be eating alone.” I realized that I would be eating alone for the next 10 meals.

I took the trolley back to my Airbnb host’s house after dinner, and got a little lost. I didn’t have a data plan in Canada, so I had to depend on pre-written directions, which became irrelevant at the first mistake. Apparently not paying sufficient attention, I rode to the end of the line. I walked up to the driver, embarrassed and asked, “did we pass Gladstone?” 

“Yes." He laughed.

Still embarrassed, "are we going back that way?"

"Yeah, we should be back there in about 15 minutes."

I rode an extra 30 minutes on the train, spending the last 15 straining my neck at every passing street sign “not Gladstone...not Gladstone…”

I hadn’t spent much time talking to my Airbnb host, but I held out hope that we would become friends. I thought about it so much that I had a dream that night that she kept coming in to my room to get her things. I wanted to get up and talk to her every time, but I couldn’t move; my body felt like led. Worried I was going to miss my chance to bond with her, I finally was able to make myself get up. I could hear people talking right outside my room, and realized that they were having a party. Aware that I had just woken up, and probably looked a mess, I checked myself in the mirror. Staring back at me was a face in constant alteration - first my face melted off, then it swirled into a cyclops face, growing and shrinking. “I can’t go out there like this!” I realized, defeated, and went back to bed.

I let myself sleep well into the morning, almost dreading facing another day. I was upset with myself for feeling this way - why can’t I be more confident and independent? I should appreciate this time I have away from work and obligations.

Finally, I dragged myself out of bed and into the world. It was a beautiful 75 degrees - birds were chirping and a perfect, slight breeze was blowing. I stopped at a local cafe to fuel up and then headed downtown, walking along charming Queen St. Its quaint brick buildings underlined the skyline of a not-so-distant downtown. I stepped into several shops, noticing how much I liked people's style here. I ordered another coffee and stopped in a nearby park (the parks were beautiful and plentiful) to read for a bit.

Over the course of the next two days, I walked about 25 miles, visiting museums, restaurants, shops and cafes. I spent one half-day on Vancouver Island, walking through parks and gardens and along the beach. "This is not the ocean," I had to remind myself as I looked out across the vast blue lake. 

It was lonely at times, but about halfway through the trip, I found my stride. Noticing the improvement in my mood, I stopped to take notes on the dos and don’ts of traveling alone:

Do:

Walk a lot

Go to museums

Sit in parks and cafes

People watch

BRING A BOOK (and a journal)

Be OK with not going out at night

Don’t:

Go out at night

Go to sporting events

I also realized the ups and downs of truly traveling alone. When I traveled to Seoul by myself, I was hardly alone. I made immediate friends on what was one of the best, most memorable trips of my life. This made me realize another “Do” for the future: Chose a couchsurfing/Airbnb host/hostel that is conducive to socializing and making friends. My Airbnb host was very nice, but it was definitely more of a business experience for both of us.

However, I also learned that occasional solo trip is actually good for the soul. When you’re alone, you’re more observant; you notice the people, their clothes and their conversations. Your senses are somewhat heightened and people watching becomes an elevated experience. You’re also able to eat and sleep and read and go where/whenever you want without compromise. Most importantly, you begin to tune into your passion, whatever that is. Everything I saw and heard became something that I wanted to write about.

My last full day in Toronto, I found a beautiful park near my Airbnb and sat with my journal for hours. I suddenly felt less alone, realizing that I had two friends with me: my journal and the city of Toronto. Toronto had become the friend that I was here to see. I got to know its transit system, its streets, its parks and its people. I wasn’t distracted by anyone or anything. 

I realized that while San Francisco was loyally awaiting my return, I was having a fling with Toronto. Or maybe we were just friends, since late nights and alcohol were not involved.

Morning Jog

I dropped my bag with a change of clothes off at work and made my way outside. Hair strewn back in a messy ponytail, and wearing the same smelly gym clothes I’ve been wearing all week, I was thankful that no one had yet come in to the office. I stepped outside on to Market street. It was still relatively quiet. This quiet would only last another hour.

I instinctively turned left, towards Church and Market. The jog to that intersection is about 15 minutes, so it would be 30 minutes round trip. I put in my headphones, took a deep breath and made my way down Market street, against commuter foot traffic. People in suits and tennis shoes, canvas bags and briefcases passed me by. The morning rush started to trickle out of houses and flow downtown.

I passed Octavia, the LGBT center, The Mint. Then, as I came up over the hill and passed Safeway, I saw my dad jogging alongside my mom. He stopped for a second, still jogging in place, and gave her a kiss. I yelled across the street, “Mom! Dad!” But they didn’t hear me. My dad turned to start on his jog to work, and my mom made her way to the F Market stop. Strangely, panic passed over me, as if this moment in time wasn’t real; I was just a ghost seeing into the past. Then, my dad turned my way. “Dad!” I yelled again. He saw me and waved and then ran back to my mom. They both waved at me.

My mom caught the F Market, and my dad made his way across the wide street to meet me. “What are you doing here?” He asked.

“I just went for a morning jog before work. Decided to run this way. I thought I might run into you.”

“Wanna jog to work together?” He asked.

“Of course!”

My dad and I jogged together to Van Ness and Market and arrived right about when my mom’s F Market passed us by. I said goodbye and let my dad catch up to the train so he could see my mom off one more time before they started their work day.

Home Sweet Home

When I tell people that I grew up in the Castro, they usually ask “What was that like?”

“It was fine,” I’d always answer. I lived in a cute Edwardian house with my mom, dad and little brother. I went to school every day, spent my free-time playing in my backyard with my best friend, and eventually grew up and went to college.

The more I got asked this question, the more I started to think of my experience as unique. “I guess it was cool to grow up in such an open-minded place,” I started to say. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of my parents sitting me down and telling me that it didn’t matter if I wanted to marry a man or a woman. They reiterated this so often while I was growing up that I was convinced that I would probably be gay. I was surprised when puberty came around and I was actually attracted to boys.

As a kid I’d have to say that my favorite part about growing up in the Castro was going out on halloween night, and not because of the halloween party in the Castro (I’m a kid, remember). There wasn’t another kid for about a square mile, so trick or treating was awesome. I’d ring a doorbell and someone (I realize now it was almost always a man) would come running out excitedly, saying something like, “thank god you’re here! We’ve been eating this candy all night. Please, take as much as you want!”

As a kid, you don’t really notice your city or your neighborhood as being unique in any way. It’s just your home. Years later, after having lived in two different countries and one other city in the States, I still think of the Castro when I tap my sparkly red shoes together and say “there’s no place like home.”

My friendship with fat

Things have changed with fat. I don’t know when we started growing apart, but I imagine it started sometime in my mid twenties.

We got along pretty well back in the day. When I studied abroad in college, I gained a good 20 pounds. “All the clothes I brought here to Paris are so dated and grimy,” I told myself. “I should buy a whole new parisian wardrobe.”  I weighed myself in Kg and bought clothes in European sizes, so I somehow didn’t even notice that I’d gained twenty pounds. “Size 44? I don’t know what that means, but it fits!” And, “No don’t tell me the conversion rate to pounds, thank you.”

It was all good, because fat and I were cool.

“Hey,” said fat, “where do you want me to go?”

“You’re not on your way out?” I asked.

“Nah, you had like, three croissants. I’ll be sticking around. Just tell me where to go”

“Um, my boobs?”

“Cool, got it.”

“Thanks fat! You’re the best!.”

When I came back from Paris, I realized that none of the clothes I had at home fit me anymore. I also weighed myself in pounds for the first time.

“Hey fat, it’s been great, but I think I’m gonna let some of you go,” I said.

“That’s cool. I’ll see you in a bit, I’m sure.”

“Ok,” I laughed. “We’ll see.”

Now, maybe fat was bitter that I let so much of it go after I came back from France, but we haven’t been on as good terms lately.

“Hey,” says fat. “I’m gonna hang out on your belly.”

“What? I only had one croissant. Shouldn’t you be on your way out?”

“Nah, one was enough apparently.”

“Really? Well, you can totally go to my ass. That’s cool with me.”

“Um, I’m gonna say no thanks. I like it right here.”

I know there is a biological explanation for why fat sticks to your more flattering areas around puberty and for only a little while after, but I refuse believe that is the reason. Fat and I just aren’t as cool as we used to be. Friendships change and friendships fade. Although fat is like family to me, so we’ll have to keep working on this relationship. We are, afterall, going to see a lot of each other around the holidays.

Cycling etiquette

Cyclists are assholes. At least it seems like that’s what almost everyone believes. As an avid cyclist, I often find myself defending other cyclists to friends and co-workers after listening to some story about an annoying bike encounter. It’s exhausting, really. The stories usually involve someone on a bike who blew through a stop sign, or almost hit my friend on the sidewalk. While defending these unknown cyclists, I would say things like “well, of course we wouldn’t stop at every stop sign” or “If it’s a busy street, the sidewalk is the only safe place to ride. Biking is closer to walking than it is to driving anyway.”

I now realize that I was going about these defenses all wrong - probably because I was one of those asshole cyclists - I often blew through stop signs and road on the sidewalk. It took a pretty serious bike accident (caused by a train track, not a car, thank god), and having a decent amount of other cyclists yell at me when I did something reckless, to realize that I’ve been in the wrong. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened, but I went from being the cyclist who gets yelled at to the one who rolls her eyes and sighs in exasperation when another cyclist is being an asshole (I’m not ballsy enough to yell yet).

At this point, I can’t even remember the last time that I was yelled at while riding my bike, which makes my morning commute to work much more pleasant. The interesting thing is, I still don’t always stop at stop signs and I sometimes ride on the sidewalk. Only now, I’m no longer an asshole about it. I’ve learned two key ways to cycle relatively freely, without being a jerk:

- Don’t just follow the rules, find the root of the rule, and go by that

- Treat commuters like people, not obstacles.

My first point came to light when I was trying to explain to someone (post cycling revelation) why it’s OK not to stop at every stop sign. I was saying that if there aren’t any cars coming, there really isn’t any reason for me to stop. The truth of it is, even cars don’t stop fully most of the time if there aren’t any other cars around. My friend took this to mean that I never stop at stop signs, which is absolutely not true. If there are any other cars going to opposite way, or turning, I stop. If there is a car opposite me, I slow way down, in case they forgot to turn on their blinker and are in fact turning. If there are absolutely no cars in sight, I slow down enough so that I could still stop in an instant, look both ways, and keep going.

We should always yield to whoever has the right of way. If this means making a full stop, then please do it. We (cyclists) should never slow down someone else’s commute by making them wait longer at an intersection because we’d rather zip through a stop sign and get to work slightly faster.

Here, the rule is that we should always stop at stop signs. This will never happen. It slows cyclists down too much and takes so much energy to stop and start again. The stop signs are only there to prevent commuters from hitting each other, and to make the road a safe and fair place to be. This is the root of the rule. If you are being safe and fair as you ride, then you are fine.

This segways into my second point - treat other commuters like people, not obstacles. Before I started riding more safely, I thought of my commute as a kind of obstacle course - pass that person, make it through that light at the expense of some lingering pedestrians, etc. It’s almost kind of fun when you get in the zone and aren’t letting anything slow you down.

Then this one day, a bus leaving a bus stop was an obstacle. I sped up and zipped around it, got my tire stuck in a train track and I flew over the handlebars, landing right in front of the bus. Thankfully, the driver was paying attention and stopped. However, I got stabbed by my handlebars, which severed a nerve and I ended up losing all feeling in my thigh as a result. All this because I just had to get around that bus before it left the bus stop.

After the accident, I went through, in my head, all of the times I was yelled at - that driver that yelled at me for going through the stop sign when it was his turn, the other cyclist who scolded me for going through a red light and almost hitting a pedestrian. I began to think about it more and more and began to feel bad. That driver was probably mostly upset because he almost hit me, which is really scary. The last thing you want to do on our commute is kill someone. And the cyclist was looking out for an innocent pedestrian, who was just trying to cross the street. The driver at the stop sign, the bus driver, the pedestrian, these are all other people, just trying to get somewhere. We should just try to treat each other with more common courtesy.

This seems really obvious, but it’s something that we so often fail to do. Think of each commuter as a friend, or someone that you just might happen to meet again sometime. How embarrassing would it be if you cut someone off and they turned to be your new boss? Treat every commuter like they’re your new boss. Yes, really. And then we will all have happier more peaceful commutes.

The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig

This was a random question that I was prompted to answer when editing my blog profile. I wrote out a little story, only to find after pressing "Save," that it was 1500 characters too long. However, not wanting all of that writing to go to waste, I decided to turn it into a blog post. The question (which actually technically is not a question): The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig:

Robby, the Russian froggy, lost his parents at a young age to a traveling French chef. Robby was too young to remember his family's tragic ending. His earliest memory was being picked up off the side of the road, by a beautiful little girl. 

"You must be hungry, Mr. Prince." The beautiful little girl said. "What's your name? Mine is Yana." 

"Ribbit." Said Robby. 

"That's a silly name!" Said the girl.

"Damnit," Thought Robby. "She doesn't speak Frog."

Yana took Robby home to her little cottage by the lake. "Let me get you all dressed up, my prince!" She said.

"What in gods name is she talking about?" Thought Robby. But he didn't have a home or a family, so he tried to go along with it. "Ribbit!" He responded.

Yana spent all morning fashioning a wig out of yarn for Robby. "Here," She said. "Now you look like a prince."

Days went by. Weeks, months, turned into years. Robby grew to love Yana and began to think that he too, was a person. Yana even began to understand a little Frog. She could tell when he was hungry or when he wanted to play. 

Once day Robby felt sad, but he didn't know why. "Ribbit..." He sighed.

"What's wrong, Ribbit?" Yana asked. " I know! You want to go to the lake!"

She picked him up and brought him outside to the lake by her house. "Here, go play!" She said. 

Rob hopped out to the edge of the lake, and something woke up inside him. He felt home. Then he heard something, he had almost lost all memory of, other frogs, and they were laughing.

"Hi!" Said Robby. "What's so funny? Can I play?"

The frogs came out from under the lily pads. There were two boy frogs and one lady frog. 

"We're laughing at you!" said the lady frog. "What's that on your head?"

Robby realized how silly he must look to the other frogs. "It's my hair!" He said indignantly as he hopped back to Yana. Yana picked him up and took him home.

So I like napkins and dollar dollar bills

I don’t really get those signs in café bathrooms that say “Napkins come from trees. Take only what you need.” I mean, do those signs really deter people from taking the amount of napkins that they initially planned on taking? I know I don’t go into the bathroom thinking “I was gonna take 10 napkins for the road, but now that I know that they come from trees…”

The worst is that there is always a drawing of a smiling tree on the sign. Which leads me to imagine this tree, hanging out on a sunny day, smiling, and then a guy with a chainsaw comes up. The tree starts to quiver, obviously aware of what happens next. “Sorry tree,” the man says. “Lorraine needs another napkin.” Then the man starts to chop a branch off, while they both cry.

There’s also always a hand dryer next to the napkin dispenser. But who has time for that?

Speaking of guilt….

Checking out at the grocery store has become a test of the worst kind. Before I go to pay, I’m always prompted with something like “Help veterans for $1 - yes or no?” It’s like being asked “Are you a good person - yes or no?” And the grocery clerk always verbalizes this question as it pops up, asking in a monotonous tone “Would you like to give a dollar to help veterans?” So you verbally have to admit that you are a bad person to the clerk and the woman behind you. Or you could say yes. But that would be giving in.

I'm back!

When I went to China, I learned a lot about myself. I spent a lot of my time alone, reflecting and writing. And when I wasn’t alone, reflecting, I experienced so many interesting new things that I never ran out of material to write about. 

One thing I learned about myself is that I really do love writing. It’s one of two things that make me feel alive and free (the other thing is dancing, which I don’t plan on making a career out of. Although if I get discovered, I’ll be open-minded). 

I came back from China, inspired and full of a newly discovered passion. It was similar to the inspired feeling I had when I graduated from college, but less naive and more focused. I knew that I wanted to write. I applied for all kinds of jobs, and took a few chances, applying for copywriting (and other writing) jobs that I knew I wasn’t qualified for.

It took a few months of searching, but I finally found a job. It didn’t have anything to do with writing, but that was OK. I needed a job, so this would be fine for now. After a few months, I came to realize that I really didn’t like my job. I had a a few negative co-workers who loved to gossip and play the blame game, and I didn’t get paid much at all. About a year later, I found another (much better) job, which I still have and love. 

Fast forward a year and a half, and I’m happily living with my boyfriend, working at a job that I love. Now that I’m happy, I’m not spending all of my free time applying for other jobs. So, what am I spending my free time doing? I’m watching a decent amount of TV, going out with friends a lot (which often involves dancing), and reading here and there. But I’m not writing. 

I took a few stabs at writing fiction recently, but that didn’t go well. The lead character was always a blonde girl whose intelligence was constantly underestimated until she proved them all wrong. Basically, a memoir of my fantasies. No one wants to read that.

Then I remembered that I had started a blog called “An American in San Francisco,” which was supposed to be my blog sequel to “An American in Shenyang.” However, I got too caught up in the job search when I got back, that I forgot about it before posting anything. 

The title of this blog isn’t a reference to me being back in the U.S. It’s letting you know that “I’m back into writing again, finally.” And this time, I hope to keep it up.