“One more block, just one more block, we can do THIS man!” The shout came from an equally exasperated Micah, who ran along my left on the scorching pavement.
The sweat slowly beaded off my brow, and began to make its way down my face. I could taste it as it hit my lips, a salty reminder that we were doing something people don’t usually do on vacation. The heat was rough, a mix of unrelenting high 80’s and a humidity that made the Upper West Side seem more like the interior of Southeast Asia. My body had given me all it could- 5 miles through Central Park, only to take a hilariously placed exit 10 blocks past where we were supposed to meet Ian. The meeting spot? Where else, a historically significant synagogue. B’nai Jeshurun is the second oldest Jewish house of worship in New York, but sitting on its steps is a young, spritely, (even excitable?) Ian waiting for us. We hug, exceptionally sweaty, and make our way to get some breakfast.
Because of circumstance, it hasn’t been just the three of us in a few years- but we laugh, shout, and listen as if we had all seen each other the day before. We share a trio of post-run bagels, each of us taking a bite from what the guy across from us ordered, in quick succession. Micah and I shake our heads as Ian does a taste test of “New York’s best mozzarella sticks”. We cackle like hyenas on the J Train when someone notices us double fisting Long Island Iced Teas. I spit my drink out when Ian tactically avoids a question about his plan post grad school. I bubble up with a feeling of deep joy, knowing that the friends I have in my 20’s are the same ones I want in my 70’s.
—---
C and I have been seeing each other for a few weeks now. She is devastatingly funny, and butterflies spring up in droves whenever she looks at me without saying anything. I like to get up early, to bring her a coffee from a trendy spot a few blocks away from her apartment. In her part of town, the nice part of town, the air has a sweet scent and the dogs are walked with leather leashes. Tonite, she’s taking me to a concert in Berkeley- have you ever heard of Billy Strings? She asks, as she puts a strand of chestnut-colored hair behind her ear. I shake my head, and a week later, we’re in her gray Mazda getting dropped off by a best friend of hers at the BART station. The ride is quick, and we hastily drop by Super Duper on Telegraph before doors open at The Greek Theatre. She orders a “Philly Style Veggie Burger” which has no relation to any veggie burger or truly any food that originated from C’s hometown of Philadelphia. She says the burger should be ‘illegal’. I won’t stop laughing about that for the rest of the night.
We get to the Greek and take a patch of lawn with a central view of Billy and his band, who play a psychedelic mix of bluegrass and classic rock. I didn’t expect to be moved by the songs… but when Billy sang “If I knew then what I knew now, I wouldn't be here anyhow” I feel my eyes get a bit watery. The music goes on and we dance the night away, sharing a couple Hazy Little Things between tracks. After making sure C makes it home, I head to leave. Before I get out her door, she stops and goes to hug me. We stay like that for a long, long time.
A week later, we break things off- we both know it’s for the best. You realize that sometimes, a special person comes into our life, stays for a bit, and then, they leave. And it is sad. But the part where they linger? It is happy, and it means everything.
—---
I moved away from the Sunset when I was 12 years old, to settle in the Richmond, which is kind of the same thing but on the other side of the park, as well as more former Soviet families in the neighborhood, as well as old money maestros in neighboring Sea Cliff. David and his family, however, spent their entire American lives here. He and I have different visual sensibilities- he’s a lover of our shared national heritage, hearty Slavic aesthetics that our families grew up around. I’m more keen on simple things that make me perk up, like the warmth of a Danish cabin, or the soft glow of a neon-lit alley somewhere in Asia. If I sound like an asshole, well, I am! So it only makes sense that the second we entered Woods, on Judah and 46th, he and I start discussing the decor of the place. He opens and says wow, I really like the look of their interior- doesn’t it feel like, German, to you? No no I tell him, this establishment is actually reminiscent of the Swiss International Style, which emphasized highly readable typography as well a love for clocks. (I point to a minimalist timekeeping piece on the wall from us.) He laughs, which is also kind of a scoff, and grabs the first round.
We head outside and sit down, it’s nearly 70 degrees out in the sunset, which means it’s unbearably hot everywhere else in the city. We talk about how we don’t actually like beer, and how much the Sunset has changed since we were kids, jumping from MUNI trains looking for trouble. Does it matter? Can we change it? Should we? Is there anything to be said about being surrounded by muppets who look just like us, when growing up, this was primarily a working class neighborhood, filled with Chinese, Korean, and Vietnamese families? These days, it seems as if the neighborhood we called home for so long is leaning more towards a diet version of a SoCal beach town, where men with long blonde hair walk their equally striking golden retrievers before catching a few waves. I’ve made my peace with it in many ways- the hope is that people realize what makes life here special, and that they cherish and nurture the spirit behind that. After all… places don’t remember you, people do.
—---
One day, you aren’t going to think about it anymore. That’s what my dad told me anyway, after a deliriously long but enjoyable car ride to SFO. It was his response when I asked him how to keep focusing on the future, when the past felt as if it was nipping at my heels. We arrived at the dropoff for my flight, and we both got out of the car. I was lugging a patagonia duffel bag filled with clothes I’m sure I didn’t need, but wanted to bring along just in case. Instead of helping me with my bags, he gave me an uncharacteristically long hug. One day, you aren’t going to think about it anymore, he repeated. His accent was less thick as the years went on, but it was there, and sometimes, it felt like a warm, knowing embrace.
The line rang gently through my head, as I sat down at my gate a few days later at John Wayne Airport, in Orange County. Apparently, our 50 minute flight to San Francisco was full- yet, no one was at the gate when I got there, which, admittedly, was 3 hours before departure. That’s another thing my father has imparted on me, for better or for worse- chronically being early to places, almost comically so. But I wanted to get here early, I wanted time to think and relax and unwind and unpack and go over what was a genuinely beautiful weekend. Connor and Kennedy got married, in what I can only describe as the most stunning ceremony I’ve ever witnessed. Dominic, Charlize, Jake and I swam in Newport Beach, dodging jagged rocks and bodysurfing till dinner. A skinny dip at midnight after Taco Bell, where the waves felt warm and cold at the same time. An early morning trail run followed by an enormous breakfast surrounded by friends old and new. The weekend was nothing if not moments, people, and places that symbolized the future. I felt energized, my heart felt a jolt like some sort of jump start to an old car battery. I watched the planes land and take off at John Wayne, a deeply hypnotic way to kill three hours. My dad picked me up a few hours later at SFO, and we laughed and laughed.
