Friday, Saturday, Sunday
It is Friday. When I wake up these days it’s usually around 8 or 9 am, often somewhere in the middle. I start my new job later in the month. I’ve been sleeping better, and I wonder if the new gig, which I’m excited about, will interfere with that. I hope it doesn’t, although it’s location, by the cursed Salesforce Tower, gives me pause. Just in case, I go out and buy some herbal cigarettes, which contain lavender, chamomile, and passionflower. I have no clue if they will help me with my sleep, but they come in a fancy tin with a nice graphic. In most cases, that is enough to get my attention, to activate my neurons and convince me to buy a product.
I lay around in bed for a while, and check my e-mail. I’ve been trying to make e-mail a “thing”; which is to say, the opposite of what many people my age use it for (discount codes, two factor authentication, reservation confirmations) and turn it into something “cool” (newsletters, correspondence with friends, virtual carrier pigeons.) It is, in some ways, sort of working. There is a long chain between some of my oldest friends, mainly consisting of cool photos we like, along with keeping each other updated on where we are in the world. Another thread near and dear to me is one where I get to exchange meaningful architecture with a friend in DC, Andrew. We send one residential and one commercial work per e-mail, and while the correspondence is fairly sparse, it still makes me very happy. Last time around included this gem, a Spanish church refitted to become a beautiful midcentury home. It’s living room is now my phone wallpaper. I look around my old, baby blue North Beach apartment. It is no Spanish church, but I like it.
I go on a run. I am starting to loathe the route I usually take, which consists of starting at my spot in North Beach and running down to Fort Mason. The saving grace is getting to go by Aquatic Park, and taking in a nice panoramic view of the bay. I decide to lace up and go the other direction, towards the Embarcadero. Zigging and zagging through downtown always makes me feel like I’m in Manhattan, and that pushes me to finally get my time down to under an 8 minute mile. The serotonin hits, and I celebrate with my biggest guilty pleasure, a green sport from Joe & The Juice. It is 8 dollars after tax, but the girl who works there always upgrades me to a large, for free. I stop to wonder if I keep coming back because I genuinely enjoy the juice, or I appreciate the fact that someone goes out of their way to do something nice for me. Either way, I feel very lucky.
There is a going away party for a friend in Berkeley tonight. I make some salmon before leaving and top it off with some Everything But The Bagel seasoning from Trader Joe’s. For a split second, I am transported back to the hallowed halls of Russ & Daughters, remembering a breakfast I got there that tasted exactly like this. I miss New York, especially the friends I had made there, some of which I haven’t spoken to in years. (Not counting the short, obligatory, and annual “happy birthday” text.) I check my phone before getting on the train. My friend Forrest has just been put on one Spotify’s big discovery playlists, and it reminds me to re-listen to his single, Summer Vibe. It is incredible. I listen to it a half dozen times before hopping off the train.
The party is a good time. The food situation features leftovers from Tacolicious, which are just fine. The real star of the show were some insanely complex, sweet and salty caramel toffee cookies. I had three, and felt awful, yet satisfied. At the pickup game we played shortly after, I nearly threw up. We won by one point.
It is Saturday. I sleep in, but decide to go present shopping as soon as I wake up. I call up a few friends and ask what the birthday boy, Caslon, would like. Something not too expensive, they say. Caslon is a good guy, and he is making hotpot for over a dozen of us later in the day. I go to Japantown, and pick out a nice four-panel manga for the guy. It reminds me of when I was younger, shopping around in Japantown with my grandpa, who lives only a few blocks away. I saw him earlier in the week, and while he is slowly starting to forget my name, he still remembers my face, and that makes me feel very lucky.
Caslon lives in the Presidio, a pristine patch of San Francisco that is equal parts old money and off-the-grid alternative lifestyle enthusiasts. His family is happily the latter. Their house is filled with works from local artists, friends of friends, and Bay Area natives. I mistake the work of one artist as Caslon’s cake; in reality, it is an impeccably knit and crocheted storage bin resembling a Black Forest tart. We go out for some boba shortly after, at a spot that was picked by Wei Jie, who is universally known to have good taste. He implores me to try something new, and I get white gourd honey lemon tea. It is incredible, and I am convinced that he is the master of this universe.
As we come back to prep ingredients, Jake from Sacramento, in full Under Armour, lets me chop vegetables with an almost comically large butcher’s knife. I like to think I am good at it. The energy in Caslon’s small kitchen feels like a real restaurant, with men from all over the world washing, slicing, and arranging food. When we finally sit down and taste the fruits of our labor, I am fairly stunned. The hotpot is incredible, and I begin to feel as if this was both a celebration and a reward.
The night goes on and I keep drinking, to the point where I am comfortable enough to have a tiny bit of weed. I smoked a truly cursed amount in my early highschool years, and usually stay away from the stuff now. But in the moment, it seemed fine to be in a circle of friends and have a puff or two. The new gadgets being passed around are reportedly better for your health, even if they look like flash drives and are made in a place we’ll never visit. I feel a bit lighter, and we throw on Howl’s Moving Castle, which has without question one of the best soundtracks of any film, Ghibli or not. I listen, deeply content. My oldest friend, the incomparable Noah, arrives shortly after. He, as is tradition, enters wearing an 80’s ski jacket and talking about crypto. We catch up for a bit. It is always good to see him.
I leave Caslon’s for yet another going away party. It seems like as many friends are coming into the city, there is an equal amount of them leaving. I get picked up in David’s strangely nice Volvo, with a backseat full of strangers. We get along exceptionally quickly after we discuss our mutual friend’s track record with women, which is Seinfeldian in how both impressive and genuinely mind-boggling it is.
We get out of the car and walk into the apartment. There are many, many people there, and I recognize a handful, if even that. A deep anxiety rushes up inside of me, a feeling I had most associated with my freshman & sophomore years of high school. I looked over to David, and told him I was leaving in 20 minutes. I fall down a rabbit hole of conversation with my cousin who is there, who I have not seen in a long time. It is good to see her, even if we went down two different paths in life. Sometimes growing up means growing apart, but it is always nice to catch up.
I signal David, look him in the eyes, tell him I love him, and to have fun. Nataly, the one who is going away, says goodbye to me as well. She is perhaps my actual oldest friend. We had known each other since we were five years old, and she had famously drawn on our walls as a kid, blaming the act of vandalism on her stuffed animal. She is now entering the nursing program at John Hopkins University in Baltimore, Maryland. To know someone for so long, and to see them do great things, that makes me feel very lucky.
I leave and hop on a Lyft Bike to go meet my housemate Dominic at milkbar, in the Haight. I have always liked milkbar- the people who go there to do open mics are actually funny, and the drinks are cheap. Dominic and I split a car to go to Soma. When we arrive, the club not only has a cover, but also the unshakeable energy of a haunted house, and not in a fun way. We are here to meet our former boss, who is looking for apartments in the city. As we wait for her on the second level, a man spills my drink and runs off. Ludacris is blaring on a speaker I am directly adjacent from. An exceptionally young woman is yelling at me about “the return of Snapchat”. Yet, the atmosphere is fun and the music is good. Our former boss arrives with her friends. I haven’t seen her in over a year, and she looks beautiful. I tell her it’s good to see her, and she smiles. Dominic and I decide to walk home after the club closes. It is half an hour of bliss. I am overjoyed that I am getting to a point in my life where I can appreciate silence, and equally happy that I have people to share it with.
It is Sunday. I get breakfast with my parents and take a nap in my childhood bedroom for the first time in months. Afterwards, I run a bath and read some Apartamento. I take MUNI, specifically the 1 California, all the way home. My roommates are cooking. As usual, Jake has made too much rice. He has also saved me a bit of the curry he made for dinner, from a recipe he learned from his aunt. It is delicious, and I feel very lucky.