I’m back from six days in San Francisco and still adjusting to life on the east coast. Or rather, I should say I’m adjusting to my own house again after a glorious hotel, my own kitchen after restaurant delicacies, and teaching my students instead of hitting unknown streets in search of urban adventures. What does all of this mean? It means I’m back to making my own coffee and my own bed. I’m back to writing on the board and reading drafts and attending department meetings and answering emails.
Needless to say, my head is not back quite yet and I find myself dreaming about Vietnamese coffee (slow brewed over an inch of sweetened condensed milk), Chez Panisse (my own personal pilgrimage to the foodie mecca), steep hills bustling with people from all over the world, the sounds of sea lions in the early morning down at the pier past Fisherman’s Wharf, the chocolate cupcake from Miette bakery, the crispy shredded papaya salad at The Slanted Door, the mango crab wonder at The Naked Fish, the dry martinis at Tosca, I could go on, but it’s making me too hungry and nostalgic for a city that isn’t mine.
But the best part was re-connecting with old friends from both high school and college and the comforting fact that everyone–to the person–looked exactly the way I remembered them. It’s nice to know that even though we’re getting older (and wiser?), we’re still the same and we’re still friends and I can still handle my gin.
So it’s back to the grind for a bit now. And probably time to check in on my house trap and figure out the paint color I want for the bathroom and maybe even clean out the garage so I can find the garden rake. But until then, I’m going to think about fresh spring rolls and the shumai place in Chinatown and the French cafe on Bush Street with the strong dark coffee and buttery croissants served warm in a basket lined with linen.