The Journey Westward

I sit staring at the road that I traveled on the number 24 bus one of my first days in San Francisco. I remember meeting my potential roommate on the corner of Dolores and 18th streets and going to look at potential apartments together. Her boyfriend, a blonde surfer accompanied, her. To me, he represented California. Someone who had grown up here all of his life, gone to school in SoCal, his family lived nearby. We took the bus on Spare the Air day, from the Castro winding our way to where our future lodgings would be: somewhere on the fringes between Western Addition and Pacific Heights, where an impoverished area in the city melds into one of its most affluent.

Divisadero Street. It runs the length of the city from the Castro to the Marina. Once boarded up shops have become hipster hangouts of art galleries and bars. You can feel the city’s affluence upon you as you approach the San Francisco bay. One of my earliest memories on the street involved hill-hopping in a sedan packed with friends. Just as we were about to crest the hill, we would accelerate and almost careen out of control on the way down. Seeing my life flash before my eyes with new friends seemed synonymous with my move to the West Coast. I had seen my life flash before me; I knew what I wanted to accomplish in life and didn’t feel as though there was an East Coast city that would challenge me creatively without overwhelming me completely.

I would have days and still do, where I think, “Why does this have to be so hard?” Why can’t I just interact normally with people? Why can’t I do my own laundry without dying my sheets pink, even though I had the setting of the washer on cold? Why can’t I even feign managing my finances when they seem to skid out of control? I have a liberal arts education, yet finding a job that’s full-time with benefits seems out of the question. Are things harder because I live in a city or because I am twenty-four years old and place unreasonable expectations upon myself? Somedays even getting in the shower seems too hard, let alone actually having my bus pass at arm’s length when I board MUNI in the city.

The way that my mind works I wonder if I am going to be able to make it. I can be social and engaged one moment, the next withdrawn and aloof. I allow myself to feel emotions deeply, I start projects with an unparalleled enthusiasm that typically dims with time. I don’t know how to manage my time and my relationships. I seem to be a complexity of hyperboles and* (best of times, worst of times).

Living in the present is my new mantra. I’m trying to be able to process through what’s going on, not necessarily living for a better future or dwelling on the past. I want to use what’s happened to fuel me towards what I want in the future and instilling a greater self-confidence within me. When I go to a bar or a concert or a restaurant or a park, it seems as though everyone around me is enjoying themselves to the nth degree. Will I ever be fully satisfied, able to enjoy glimpses of happiness instead of being clouded by anxious thoughts?

Take today, for instance. Being able to have the day off of work, at a job where others depend on you can be a breathe of freedom. I want to be able to enjoy my own independence without having my own expectations get in the way. I am able to function throughout the day until I see a gmail post that captures my attention the same way that a wannabe hipster did almost two years ago. His pretentious writing style and elevated vocabulary fit perfectly with the elegance of a museum. I remember the same way that he would describe some of our shared times together in his blog, describing my ratatouille as sauce over pasta instead of the chunky French stew.

Alex shaped the way that I saw the world during the year that I spent in France. I had always been one that you could put into a box; I was the all-American girl in high school who obediently submitted to her parents, who earned her grades by working hard,. He planted the seed in me to dismiss the stereotype and come into my own, to move out to California. Ever since reading The Grapes of Wrath in high school, I saw California as the Promised Land. The book chronicled the sufferings that plagued a family in search of the American Dream, and maybe my story is no different.

It was easy for me to do the same thing the year previous, to embrace being the American ex-patriot who had migrated to France in search of better fortune. To distance myself from insecurities that flared up around those I knew. To change my mind politically and not have anyone care or even notice. To test the waters of a new profession, to embrace my post-college self. I was drawn to Alex because he represented experimentation; he was everything that was different from me, yet completely alluring at the same time. Whatever I felt passionate about and cared deeply for, he dismissed apathetically. I intentionally planted myself in his life, sharing cultural experiences with him that would end up affecting me, shaking me to the core. With him, I felt like I let go of the Meg that had been hidden for twenty-three years, awaiting her violent and fearful awakening.

I let my emotions take over; I read into situations with him that didn’t need further examination. It was clear from our first time alone together walking the streets during the jazz festival in Nancy, France, that he didn’t have an interest in pursuing me. I met him on a bench near the center of town, aloof and nonchalant in an old man’s cap. When we arrived at the venue, he would proceed to buy me a glass of wine. I wanted to depend on him, searching for evidence of physical intimacy: a brush of his arm or a locked gaze.

His name appears in the Chat feature of gmail and I find myself distracted by the possibility of contacting him again. It’s easy to feed a habit that is self-destructive. I know that I will feel the same sense of disappointment after spending time with him that I usually do. I will want to make him into someone he isn’t in my mind, allowing myself to feel the rejection even more deeply.

I sit at the French café that I used to frequent in my early days of living in the city, filling my days up with things to do because I didn’t have a job to occupy my time. Being here reminds me of feeling hopeful. I had a beer here with a good friend a few months ago. I remember sitting with him as dusk fell over the city, discussing issues that had come up between our friends. I think back to cafes in France where I would feel the sun upon my face and immediately feel the anxiety subside. Moments of living abroad felt overwhelming and too bulky to unpack. Simplistic acts like sitting in the sun or wandering aimlessly through the streets would put me at ease.

The idea of drinking a beer with a friend at the end of the day would often salvage my days in the classroom. Beer became symbolic of my European adventures, trying new varieties but also remaining commited to the favorite that Alex had introduced me to, Stella Artois. We had some of our most difficult and revealing conversations over the carbonated but weighty glass of liquid.

We met at a café near his house after I wrote letter to him, defining my interest. All I had received confirming that he had received the letter was a text message. I coincidentally left it at his doorstep a few days prior to one of our school vacations. Even though I had made a bold move, it was hard to face the consequences of what I had done. I wanted the dust to settle over the matter before I had to deal with it the next time I would see him in person.

He would buy my beer that night, as was his custom. While it may have seemed trivial to him, it always felt special to me. I liked feeling that someone cared enough to spend two euros on me. Sitting at the table across from one another in the darkly lit pub, we skirted around the issue of the letter I had written. I didn’t want to confront him with my feelings; I felt that I had already done so. Being someone who thought highly of himself, Alex wanted to hear the words directly from me. Insecure and ashamed, I apologetically defended my feelings such that they seemed unwarranted and unmerited.

Because no conclusions were drawn from our meeting that night, our relationship dissolved overnight. I couldn’t look him in the eyes after what I had done. Over time, he became cowardly to me. I deserved better. I was worth more than feeling the way that I did, after sharing my vulnerability. The same pattern repeats itself throughout my life: I can’t trust others because I don’t believe that they ultimately love me or care about me, I think that they will somehow underhandedly betray me.

A beer brought us back together again in San Francisco, when I felt a false sense of self-confidence after scoring an interview that paid for my jaunt across the country. I paid for his beer this time, asserting this newfound gumption. We sat in the back of a taqueria in the Mission, me dominating the conversation by blurting out my recent interview successes. He listened halfheartedly in the way that was forgiveable. He would redeem himself by being present part of the time. Yet, the fact that he had left me waiting at the corner of 16th and Mission for almost an hour, confirmed my suspicions.

We had changed locales, but Alex had not changed. He would continue to leave me hanging, I would continue waiting until he would arrive. I would allow an image of him to remain in my mind that he did not live up to. Watching him board the bus back to his home, which he made a point of commenting was near Haight-Ashbury, I came to a concrete realization. This was someone who had come to define my European experience. Being a strong, pseudo-independent twenty-three year-old, I wasn’t going to let him color my time once more.

Nine months later, I would pursue him once again, at a point of weakness. It would be over a beer, as it always was. This time it would be a compromise, our meeting. I would arrive at the café in my neighborhood, feeling as though I possessed some stronghold in the equation. I waited outside for a few minutes, gabbing to my friend over the phone and seeking affirmation.

He would possess the upper hand, sitting there with a moleskin notebook and a battered copy of a Salman Rushdie novel. As I went to buy my beer, I would glance over at him and find him engaged in his literary pursuits. He would capture me again as he had before. I would feel the same way that I always had in our interactions, a poser, a disaster, a weakling. He works at two of the most renowned museums in the city, while I, a supposed artist, find my living working part-time at the local French school. I hadn’t broken out of the reality that we had lived in while in France. I was the one who had remained stagnant in his eyes.

I would try and reestablish my control by taking him by my apartment and introducing him to my paintings. He would oblige me with compliments, but I couldn’t discern his actual reaction. I wanted him to see that I had artistic and creative roommates, who were close friends and better company than he had been. I left the evening feeling buzzed, it was he would had purchased the second beer and manipulated the situation. I was at a loss for what to do when walking him out the door. I knew it was in my best interest not to see him again, but it was hard to watch someone who had held my emotions in the palm of his hand, walk out of my life. I wanted desperately to put myself in his grasp once more.

It is a few months since that interaction and I still feel like I am no different. True, I would be able to run into him and wiggle my way out of the situation with my social graces. But, I would be affected for hours afterwards, my stomach twisted in knots. Every time I am in the car near his house, I feel more raw and ex acerbated than normal. I watch crowds of hipsters walk in and out of my life, and sometimes I see him in and among them. I haven’t deleted him from my gmail chat box; I have deleted him from my facebook profile. I compartmentalize and allow the chance for him to re-enter.

I’m not Felicity living out the romance, in which I chase Ben Covington across the country and miraculously find myself in an intensely, powerful relationship with him. I can’t help the fact that part of the reason I was drawn to San Francisco was because of Alex Teplitzky. It represents a part of my life from last year that I am still clinging onto. There will be days when I will struggle with my decision, when I will feel incapable of stumbling through the San Francisco fogginess of my reality.

Even writing now, I think as though I am at times trying to emulate his literary genius in someway. Are my words even making sense or am I stringing sentences together that will endure intense literary criticism and fall apart at the seams? I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing most of the time, trying so hard to be someone that I’m not. One week I will try and be a hipster, formulating and calculating my look just so that I look discombobulated. Another week I will try and look the part of a teacher and actually care about how I present myself to my classroom. Other days I will look put together and buttoned up and declare my presence with a Southern accent. You will know that I went to school in the South and bought into the sorority aesthetic. Or you will know that I’m trying too hard to be artistic and creatively challenge myself. Or you will think that I’m actually fluent in French after having lived there for a year and acquiring all sorts of French clothing. Or you will think that I’m a pious Christian who surrounds herself with others like herself and doesn’t like to miss church on any given Sunday. Or that I’m the crazy, out-of-control girl who can’t handle life without a hefty dose of anti-depressants. Who pretends that she likes cigarette smoking, when all she can handle is saccharinely sweet, sugar-coated cigarettes. Who was a runner in high school and for a time in college; therefore, she can finish any half-marathon with ease. Who knows the map of MUNI like the back of her hand, but sometimes can’t figure out how to get off of the bus. She knows how to order a coffee at the local café, but doesn’t know how to judge whether or not it’s a legitimate cup of coffee.

Most of the time I feel as though I’m juggling ten different lives. The one that I had in college, the one that I had in France, the one that I have in San Francisco, the one that I would like to have in San Francisco. I find myself wishing I was somewhere else sometimes, it’s hard for me to live in the present and enjoy every moment. I’m constantly comparing myself to others and what my life would be like if it had gone another direction.

Living in San Francisco has helped me to be content with what I have, less materialistic and more realistic. The script of my life is being written here, maybe not in the way in which I expected, but in a way in which I can cope. I would like to be that artsy person that walks around with an unwavering confidence, instead of the flaky pushover that I am most of the time. I have a hard time expressing what I really want from others and from situations. I will succumb to the pressure of letting others’ expectations and feelings get in the way. Take, for instance, if I lend someone money. I have the most difficult time asking them for that back, unless they bring it up and offer the sum in return. If I do say something, I feel stingy, greedy.

All roads lead back to the person I once was, the girl that cried in seventh grade over being told that she was the girl who always apologized for things she didn’t even do. I was tried to be popular and successful based on other’s opinions of me. I wasn’t able to formulate my own cosmology because there were so many around me who were revolving in the orbit. My own ideas couldn’t survive with an abundance of distraction. I allowed my sense of self to be trampled.

I want to change and it appears to the outside world that I’m trying to do so. Is change ever possible in the face of vulnerability? When I am faced with a compromising situation, I revert to my weak, seventh grade personage. Ideally, I would like to transition from activity to activity without having a psycho-samatic break in between.
I would like for rest not to be forced and for stress to come naturally, not be imposed.

If I would be able to trust others and my instincts, I would be satisfied with my decisions. I can move miles away from home, two thousand miles in one direction or another, but not be able to find a job with benefits in the continental United States. I like telling people that I made it to the final round of Google interviews, that I was almost hired by Gap, Inc. For some reason, it makes doing what I’m doing easier for me to digest. Being a teacher seems like it is a cop-out, that anyone can do it, just so long as they can stand being around kids all day. I got that line of thinking from my parents, who always told me, “The best and brightest don’t go into teaching.” I had the idea growing up that because I was smart, I would become a doctor. Because I enjoyed babysitting and being around kids, I would become a pediatrician. A plus B equals C by the additive property. But, A plus C doesn’t equal B, according to my parents. My dad is an engineer who has a hard time comprehending artistic, abstract concepts.

When I first introduced him to propensity towards the road less traveled, we were at a café in Avignon, France. It was dimly lit, outside of a Roman-inspired cathedral in the old town. I took an architecture class during my time in Avignon, so I was attuned to the details of my surroundings.