What's Being Delivered...
...vs what's being picked up in SF. Plus, Barbie, WWE, and more!
The bus came as soon as I turned the corner, opening its doors to me like a hug. And exhale.
Minutes earlier, dressed head-to-toe in Lulu, curly hair flying in the wind, two boxes of Adidas sneakers in a Brooklyn Museum tote slung over my shoulder, I was high-tailing it through a dodgy, industrial area of SF. Piles of garbage overflowed outside an Amazon warehouse, while unhoused people milled about abandoned tents outside the parking lot for Waymo’s driverless cars.
It was not a good look—for me, or for SF.
I got honks, and “Heys!” and questionable-looking eyes through dirty windshields as if to say, “Where the hell are you going, lady? What are you doing over here???”
As I gripped my phone, which displayed an interminably long line of little blue dots telling me when I’d reach the bus stop I was heading towards, I wondered the same.
**
It’s a strange thing to be falling in love with a city that is, for all intents and purposes, falling apart at the seams. That the media is calling “dangerous,” “empty,” and “over.”
Prior to arriving, I refused to believe it despite being forewarned and questioned—mostly by those who don’t actually live here: “Don’t you know how bad it is in SF?” and “It’s not what it used to be.”
But what did I know? I’d never really spent an extended amount of time here so I didn’t have anything to really compare it to. Yet, it still drew me in when I visited last year. Plus, I’m a New Yorker who lives in Paris—two cities that display their own fair share of threats and anomilies on any given day. So I wore my rose-colored glasses, excited about the Redwoods and the colorful Victorian houses and the ease of Muni and BART and the riceless burritos and the English speakers and…and…
Yet, it’d feel completely ignorant and naive not to address and share what else I’ve witnessed over these past two months; not to admit that the city is simultaneously woo-ing me, but also ew-ing me. I’ve come downstairs to find someone sleeping in the vestibule of my apartment building. I’ve walked by people smoking crack in broad daylight, and I’ve been shouted at on the 49 bus across town. And the 15. And the 30. And on the BART and Muni platform, and while walking through the Safeway parking lot with a bag of overpriced groceries.
Of course, they weren’t really shouting at me. Just at the (their?) world, I guess. It’s sad and it’s unsettling. Not just the fact of it all, but the awkwardness of witnessing it, existing within it, reacting to it. The feelings that come up in waves; dipping in, out, and around each other like the Pacific that surrounds us: anger, disappointment, sorrow, shame.
Yet, while I may avoid certain bus lines or areas at night, or clutch my phone tighter while walking down deserted streets during the day—things I do, unfortunately, as a woman who regularly wanders the world on her own—I’m still as starry-eyed as Van Gogh. The commute to get “there” may be questionable, but I’m relearning the impressive history of a storied city; captured by its sprawling neighborhoods that each display its own personality—from Downtown to Marin and Menlo Park, and Berkeley and Rockridge across the Bay. I’m still in awe of its fig trees and the deep violet-hued potted flowers outside the multi-storied homes; the huffing-and-puffing up hills that simultaneously fill me and suck me of energy; the wildflowers that line Dolores Avenue; the retro movie theater signs and tall, phallic-looking skyscrapers. The fog horns. The Golden Gate.
I’m sure the city has changed, as many do. As people do. But just like people, they contain multitudes. They have their moments of fame and fortune; of destitution and uncertainty. And while it is a sure shame that the state of things right now feel both static and a relentless constant, causing those of us priviledged to live (or visit for a short while) to confront all sorts of discomfort and disgruntlement, beauty and vibrancy remains if you care to find it.
I guess that’s why I keep pushing to explore and discover; to unearth without preconcieved notions. To see what I see for myself, by myself. To pick up what’s being delivered in all forms, shapes, and, sizes.
Which is how and why I found myself en route to a FedEx facility in a dodgey side of town yesterday.
I’ll discover a new part of the city! I told myself. Those bus commutes always seem longer than they are when you’re actually doing them. Listen to a podcast! All good!
I could’ve taken an Uber—surely anyone who lives here would’ve—but you don’t know what you don’t know, right? Plus, I refused to spend what I saved on free shipping to go pick up something that was meant to land on my doorstep five days prior. So, off I went.
(The irony of my trying to save money while carrying two pairs of new sneakers, wearing leggings that retail for $110 and holding an expensive technology device, while faced with the environment I found myself in, was not lost on me.)
What was even more ironic was reading this article about the city’s “Doom Loop” state during the journey.
My jarbled thoughts included: You idiot. You brave motherfucker. You naive dope. You’ll be fine. This is so dumb. This is so YOU. Faceplant. 🤦🏻♀️ Fitspump. 👊
So when I rounded the block and the bus pulled up before I could make sure it was going in the right direction and whip out my Clipper card to pay for the ride, I felt an astonishing sense of relief and deep satisfaction. A little of this and that. Not black. Not white. Grey—but with a fleck of poppy-hued orange for good measure because, wideranging and distressing realities aside, a girl can still California dream.
Wishing you all a long weekend full of whatever it is you seek to pick up or have delivered. xx — Sara
Clickable
Dear AI Robots: Please channel “assistant energy.” | The New Yorker
Splish, splash! Rent someone’s pool for your next party. | Dwell
Why can’t creation and procreation be two different things? | ELLE
The “studied carelessness” of baking imperfectly. Plus, cobbler! | The New Yorker
Dave Mathews is still vibing. | GQ
TV writers are so undervalued, this one’s on food stamps. | The Cut
How to end a group chat? Send one of these. | The New Yorker
This “Air Sommelier” will school you on sniffing Swiss air. | Food & Wine
These hypothetical 'ideal NYC lives' are delusional. | Curbed
Happiness is the key to success at work. Get it via love. | The Atlantic
Martha, that SI swimsuit cover, and what it means for womenkind. | CNN
Ghostwriters: “inherent and nowhere; vital and invisible.” | The New Yorker
Watchable
This “bold new take” (aka remake) of “The Color Purple” looks magnificent.
And then, on the completely opposite end of the spectrum, there’s the official, full-length trailer for Greta Gerwig’s “Barbie,” which I can’t possibly be more excited about, proving that people (like cities!) contain multitudes.
J'adore: learning French
File this under things you didn’t necessarily ask for, but when I LOVE something, I want to shout about it from the rooftops—be it a book, a podcast, or, in this week’s case, FRENCH LESSONS. Welcome to “J’adore” a smidgen of declarations from moi about something I adore. (Like, for example, the fact that “adore” and “adore” mean the same thing in English and French. But no need to devote more than a sentence to that!)
Bookable
Oh hey! This is me sneaking in a new section to plug myself and my itinerary-building services for those of you planning a trip to Paris this year.
If you’ve already read some of the articles I’ve written, along with the First Timers and Where to Eat NOW guides for The Infatuation that just came out, but still find yourself with questions and a hungry desire for personalized feedback, give a shout. While arranging days around meals is a specialty, I’m also happy to provide hotel recs, suggest tours, and plan days around street art, museums, shopping, cafés, etc.. I have worked with all types of travelers: solo, repeat, honeymooners, families, friend groups, luxury, budget, kosher, and more.
Currently overthinking…
…whether to extend my stay in SF (and then NY) even further… [Big surprise: I did!]
Souvenir: WWE Ice Cream Bars
It’s Memorial Day Weekend in the States, which means it’s unofficially summer, which means it’s officially ice cream season (for those of you who don’t eat it year-round, like me and Mom), which got me thinkin’ about some of my favorites. Enter WWE’s ice cream bars! I was not necessarily a wrestling fan, but there was something about these soft-cookie sandwiches with vanilla ice cream and a thin layer of chocolate that caused me to debate whether to order this from the ice cream truck instead of my tried-and-tried strawberry shortcake. Knockouts, amIright?
In my view, it's an integral part of city living, and you can't claim to know a city if you only go to the fancy parts. Having been a Chicagoan for 18 years, I was always getting angry at people who claimed they would never get south of Roosevelt... they refuse to even "try" to get to know 2/3 of their city! Admittedly the first time I went to the University of Chicago campus taking the "non traditional" bus line that all students were taking, and I was the only white person on the bus (back in 2004), I felt...uncomfortable. But also, like you, proud! I got to know the sensitive hoods of the city through volunteering because you only fear the unknown, and exposure (for both sides!) is key. People are, for the most part, people, some luckier than others, but there's always a heart to be found under there, deeply buried or readily available. No place is a postcard. And even if the misery and violence it yields are always regrettable, I'm for one glad to be able to see my cities without makeup as well as dresses to the nines.
Here’s to living in the gray!! (with poppy colored flecks obvs)