Realization - san francisco stories continue
August 17, 1999 SF by v.l.Sunday afternoon. We had just finished painting the bookshelves. Or rather, my roommate had just finished painting the bookshelves for us. I had been up late the night before, studying up on the essay questions, and I didn’t get up until 1 pm the next day.
I had planned to go to the beach with some friends but instead I ended up catching up on my sleep.
Friday night was my only break. I had gone out for dinner at Palomino, then to 42 Degrees for desert. We closed the restaurant and the bar over some conversations about the lost love.
Sunday night my roomie had a date in the city with her beau, whom lived on Pine and Fillmore. I had met him the same night she met him, at a Melrose Party in Marina about a month ago.
I had decided to stay in, for fear of not able to finish the studies. I wasn’t feeling so good with the progress. My book – the story of Jasmine and Edward had not gone well at all. I couldn’t seem to grab hold of the sex scene. So for inspiration I’d picked up Spending by Mary Gordon and read a few paragraphs and then gone back at writing my own. I couldn't imagine how Edward was going to react when Jasmine half seduced him in his house by Seacliff. I just couldn’t because I was so out of practice myself.
Then there were those damn essay questions I had to do. One of them asked what the three major accomplishments in my life were and I had not been able to come up with anything.
I wished that J was online but he wasn’t. Nor was T. T thought that all Harvard guys were too intellectual and annoyingly nerdy, but J seemed (so far) to have a rather good head on his shoulders.
Sunday later at the night I finally convinced myself to go out again. It was half past eight when I phoned my Scandinavian artist friend Y to see if he was still up for a night cap. He had asked me if I was interested in dinner but I had to wave that off – after all, I’d cooked dinner for the week.
You see - every Saturday night I would go to a fresh fish supermarket and pick up salmon, eel, or crab and make dinner for myself. It wasn’t that difficult after all. They even fried the fish for the customers. Sometimes I made them sweet and sour, sometimes I made them curry and spicy. I brought them to lunch during week days because I typically ate at the desk and worked through lunch.
Y was a very talented artist, that I did detect right off the back. He’s modest, and observant. Working for the auction powerhouse as a senior software engineer during the day, he had carried on with his passion that had gone mad at late nights or at his time off. The oil paintings on canvas he had done in the past bordered contemporary and cartoon themes. It was expressive and colorful like some of the Salvador Dali’s work.
I had always carried good feelings for Scandinavians, partly because of Lars, a young 6’4” tall Swedish guy I had met when I was in the early twenties. Back then, Lars would come to my Campbell apartment after his day and hang out. I’d spent a lot of time studying on my MBA program then, and he’d watch TV with then my German roommate in the living room. Lars left for Stockholm shortly after, and he had asked me to join him by moving to Sweden. I had not seen enough America to be moving to Europe yet. It was a Thanksgiving romance that had gone sour. I didn’t remember him until much later on, surprisingly, to this date, I could still remember his voice, his looks and the way he smiled so vividly.
Most of the past acquaintances lost colors in my memory but Lars stayed in my heart. For years I thought it was because of his foreign flair, but it was only recently did I realize that I missed him so much more because he was the only one who carried a purpose that was as pure as the mountain spring water. He loved me, all purposely loved me.
You always want what you can’t have. Lars was the first man who brought me dark purple roses. He was also the first man who cried in front of me because he felt that he loved me. I was young and playful, and I didn’t know what it meant. I had not gone through the lost of innocence until another man who’s also Swedish blood entered into my life.
Y had known that of course. I liked a person who had something more than just work - an intellect whose mind could juggle between reality and fantasy and in turn translate the fantasy into the creative format. Writing had always been my venue and drawing had always been Y’s.
Y spoke English better than Lars did, and that meant that we could communicate a bit more and on broader scale of things such as Internet technology, arts, culture and feelings. I enjoyed the idioms from different cultures. Some people bore me to death because they didn’t seem to have the passion in life to explore the uncharted territory. Mediocrity drove me insane. I couldn’t possibly be in good manners in front of people who couldn’t carry on an intelligent conversation. Luckily I’d been selective enough in the past few years to avoid that phenomenon at all cause.
We ended up venturing out to the Universal Café, passing the Blowfish Sushi because it was as noisy as hell. Universal Cafe was quieter, and the desert – Chocolate pudding with Gelato was heavenly. The truth was that the food didn’t matter as much as the people I was with.
Y was someone I didn’t have to be afraid of telling tales. He told me about his heartaches so I felt it was only fair to share mine. But it just never came up, as I had not felt much pain lately – thanks to my self-fulfillment and the final pursuit of happiness on my own. That was until he asked me why I bought the house. He had bought his because of his ex girlfriend. I had bought mine to prove to someone that I was worthy.
Now I could carry on the conversation without blinking my eyes; now I could share the heartache as it was someone else’s; now I no longer had any fear.
Y said that it was a great story because there was a good outcome from it. I said it was the loss of innocence. Since then prices were high and the emotions were heavy. But somehow at the restaurant for the first time I didn’t feel like that I was pouring my past out, instead it was more or less like someone else’s story, and I was just reciting a story which I knew so well because I’ve told the same tale to many others.
It could be just Y, who was also Swedish, who was creative in his own ways that made me feel safe. I liked artists, musicians and writers. I liked them because they could comprehend my own sense of irregularity. I was never the kind you could put a chain on. My ocean cried laughed jumped torn apart so many times that I forgot to count the frequency.
I simply wanted someone to understand me, to truly comprehend what I went through, and appreciate me for who I was.
That I could detect from Y. I liked him as a friend, someone who was open, cordial and fun. Someone who could understand the pain of growing up in a foreign country alone, someone who wasn’t always so competitive, or dully nodding his or her head and said “Geez I admired you so much”.
Understanding someone wasn’t an easy task. I had often feared that I wasn’t worthy – when I was with someone who’s highly intellectual but lacked the emotional intelligence. I had also been in situations where talking to someone was like talking to a machine, hitting a racquet ball to the wall and being knocked out by the bounced ball, no reactions. No reactions whatsoever.
So after the desert we went back to the house. I read the IKEA catalog and picked a few things that I liked to see in my house (while trying not to completely Scandinavianize my house). We talked some more about the trendiest restaurants featured in the San Francisco magazine, while Mono being played in the background.
It was a life I dreamed of having. No pressure, and no expectations. I didn’t know where I was headed. Should I take on the path that I’d recently chosen, I knew more than half of the chance I’d be either living in Boston or New York next year this time. I knew that my time in the bay area would be largely limited. But I still enjoyed friends, I still enjoyed the communication, I still enjoyed telling tales about my new book that would be one day a New York Time best seller. OK so I didn’t know if it would be a best seller but it would be a work of art. And I knew if I put my heart and soul into something; I would be getting something extraordinary in return.
I remembered Y asked me if I could see the moon when we drove pass a bridge that overlooked the skyline of San Francisco. I knew that I loved this city so much. I knew all of the sad stories from the past were just preparations for a brilliant future. A future only I could see. A future in which Lars wouldn’t be crying for his lost love. A future in which I would be understood - once for all.
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