The Bucket List.

I'm winding down my time in SF, and suddenly, I'm realizing all of the SF things I need to do. Catch up with friends, for one. And get to know my neighbors.

Just a little while ago, while taking out the trash, I found myself chatting with my downstairs neighbor, and I wonder what's taken me so long. Apart from the rushed hellos while running up the stairs or emails about the monthly trash rotations, I'm saddened that it's taken me this long to invest in my neighbors, as they really are wonderful people. I have a million questions for them, how they got here, what they've been through, why the split, but it seems inappropriate and overly personal for a one month crash course.

There are meals to be had! Songs to be sung. And most importantly, desserts to be consumed in the company of friends I'll miss dearly.

Bucket List for SF:

1. Benu - 1 down, 10 to go!
2. Try Redd 
3. Get coffee with downstairs neighbor
4. Wicked karaoke showdown in J-town w/ Hannah & Eric.. w/ Eric as Glinda
5. Find someone who hasn't yet seen Inception & watch said movie
6. Beat Jan & Matt at Dr. Mario once and for all
7. Ferry Building Farmer's Market uno mas time
8. Knock out 50% of 7x7's Big Sweet list
9. Go to Mayfield's when they actually have the Gilroy loaf in stock
10. Finish A Confederacy of Dunces
11. Check out the lovely & talented Maira Kalman's exhibit

To be continued..

Waiting for November.

All Hail the Queen.

New Year, New Confessions.

I've been doing quite a bit of reading as of late, as I find I tend to devour books while traveling. When I first arrived in the UK, I figured I'd read as the British do and opted for the likes of Oscar Wilde, Ian McEwan, and Kazuo Ishiguro. You know, keep it respectable.

After acquiring a stack of 10 books in the past 2 months alone, I realized this simply wasn't sustatinable. Luckily, my family stepped in and presented me with a little something by way of Amazon.

Now that I have a Kindle, I find myself reading through a series of embarrassing books. Books I would never actually buy in tactile form. I have the luxury to do this behind the safe facade of said Kindle.

I feel as though being a card-carrying member of the Authors@Google team prohibits me from reading such drivel, but yeahh.. no.

This includes a selection of chick lit, of which anything post-Bridget Jones era is generally unadvisable, save for maybe The Nanny Diaries or Something Borrowed. Oh, and if you see the words Plum Sykes on the cover, run far, far away.

Once upon a time, I'll admit I was a bit obsessed. In all fairness, this was in high school / early college and coincided with my Korean drama phase, and really, what girl is in her right mind during high school? And I admit I find myself curious to see what Becky Bloomwood is up to on an annual basis.

Moving right along to Dan Brown. Ugh.. Dan Brown. Enough said.

But really, after skimming chapter after chapter in increased annoyance, I couldn't help but think, surely The DaVinci Code couldn't have been this bad? I suppose it was fresher then (but still poorly written) by some professor who fancies himself as Indiana Jones.

And now on to the Sarah Palin memoir. I have to admit, I was curious. When I first got wind of the book deal, I was appalled. Not at all shocked, but very appalled. HarperCollins, how could you? But nine chapters into her Wasilla Warriors basketball games and Miss Alaska pageantry, moving on to her courtship with Todd, I'm actually kind of charmed.

I'm often wary of political memoirs, except maybe Dreams from My Father, as I'm convinced it was written pre- any kind of major political ambition, much less the presidency. I have no illusions that this is another Palin action item in framing her path to the Oval Office.. or so she hopes (with maybe a Fox News anchor-ship as an added bonus). And I still don't agree with her politics. But it takes guts to fight the Boy's Club and serve her state and explain herself to an America that sees only Tina Fey's (brilliant) caricatures. And that deserves [a fraction] of more respect than she's been given by us armchair critics.

But then again, I'm only 11% done. We'll see how I feel come lipstick and campaign time, Mavvvvvrick.

Like I said, new year, new confessions. But surprisingly, what I'm finding amidst these guilty pleasures is a renewed perspective.

A Walk Down Drury Lane.

It's raining outside, pouring, actually, and my pants are soaked to the knees. My shoes have turned into galoshes, except instead of repelling the water, they seem to have absorbed the entire contents of multiple puddles.

I'm reliving my Stratford days. Except I'm not in Stratford-upon-Avon, but rather, reminiscing down various streets in London. I can't believe it's been 6 years.. what I wouldn't do to relive those days. The greatest time of my life. In some ways, I feel all traveling is an attempt to recreate or recapture that time.. when everything was so vibrant and life was nothing but a stream of possibilities.

It's funny revisiting that now. I'm older, but not that much older. Can't say I'm all that wiser, though I've picked up a thing or two in my foray into the real world. And yes, it feels good to be back, but I'm finding it's not a place that a memory makes. What's lacking are the people. That, and the fact that our beloved Drury Lane Moat House has been converted into a Travelodge. A Travelodge!

As I'm wandering down the streets of Covent Garden and Leicester Square, I'm flooded with images. There's the Drury Lane theatre where we saw My Fair Lady (and sweated profusely in the unventilated balcony). They say it's haunted, or so says M. Sasek in his book "This is London." I love M. Sasek. Said production has since shuttered and Oliver! starring Rowan Atkinson has taken its place. The open air market and Molton Brown are still there, untouched by the recession, but I'm really quite dismayed to find not even a trace of Eat My Handbag Bitch.

Around the corner, past where we saw that discarded heroin needle, is the market. To be 21 again and falling over into gutters in front of corner markets at three in the morning (you know who you are) and discovering Topshop for the first time..

Moving on to Leicester Square, there's the intersection where I'd be accosted with 'konichiwa's and 'ni hao ma's. Last I checked, I was still Korean, but what can you do. And ah, Oxygen. I find it comforting that that tourist trap of a club is still there. Gives one a feeling of solidarity, of continuity with the past. A breath of fresh air, if you will.

But ultimately, it's the feeling of not sharing this with good friends and classmates that settles in. Of watching plays, jumping in fountains, and of stealing digestives and custard creams off the room service carts.. These little memories are what I hold on to as I'm walking down Drury Lane in the pouring rain.

Conversations with Myself.

I'm standing in Paradeplatz after work one night, waiting for the 11 tram to come along. It's 8:36pm, and to my right is Credit Suisse, and behind me is UBS. I wonder what dastardly deeds and covert transactions transpired in these fine Swiss banking institutions today.

From a distance, I see the lit green sign on an approching tram, and the 11-Rehalp comes chugging along. I hop aboard, half listening to some NPR podcast playing the Decemberists' Hazards of Love, I think it is. I'm lost in my thoughts. My millions of thoughts occupying a simultaneously recessed mind. It's funny how that works.

Outside the window, I see the quai, and then the lights reflecting off the lake. The hustle and bustle of Bellevue and its many intersections comes along, and I notice they've changed the Ponyo adverts to some German poster I don't understand. Globus, Movenpick, and that yummy bratwurst stand flash across. Next up is Bahnhof Stadelhoften.

A woman boards the tram. She's an elderly woman, immediately finds her seat and proceeds to stare out the window. Glumly. Or so I think. It occurs to me to smile at her.

God, is that you? I wonder.

I turn my gaze towards the darkly swarthed woman, and the corners of my lips tip upwards. She's not looking.

But God, how am I supposed to smile at her, if she's not looking in my direction? Somehow, I feel pressured now to just get it done. 


The threshold has passed to make friendly eye contact. I ponder tapping her on the shoulder and grinning stupidly, but that's just straight up awkward. 

I wonder who she is. Did she just run to Migros, the local grocery store, after a long day of work, only to have missed store hours by 2 minutes? Does she have a relapsing daughter who refuses to seek treatment? WHAT IF she's having suicidal thoughts and this is the one thing that will keep her from jumping? Sure there are no cliffs in Zurich, but you never know.. One simple action..

Two stops later, the woman gets off, and I'm once again left alone with my thoughts, stumbling down tangents, thinking about everything and about nothing at all.

And so, I'm sitting, gazing out the window with the same far off look as when I boarded the tram. What dastardly deeds have newly opened safes unleashed tonight, Credit Suisse? 

One Saturday in Zurich.

I've always wanted to live abroad. It's been one of those pipe dreams that I never really believed would happen, but I hoped nonetheless. About a month ago, the opportunity came along, tapped me on the shoulder, and how could I say no? I've always viewed Europe and the expat life to be one of bohemian glamour and promise. And now I find myself in Switzerland, living in Zurich for the next month, in an attic, no less.

I don't plan for things. In fact, I suppose things have more or less fallen into my lap, and because of this phenomenon, I have become rather ill-equipped at preparing. What I'm coming to realize is traveling to Europe while on exchange in college or while on vacation is completely different from coming to live in a new place, completely on your own. Being a natural introvert has its pluses and minuses.

I've found I'm the happiest at Orell Fussli, a local bookstore. Perching on one of the couches, occasionally glancing up at the passerbys, hoping the bookstore clerks don't mind me perusing one of their novels, getting their recommendations. I want to finish The Time Traveller's Wife because I am over half-way done, but I can't justify purchasing said book because I'm finding it to be awful. But I've come this far. And I leave with Murakami's memoir on running instead.

Today I slept in to catch up on the jet lag and proceeded to wander down alleyways in Old Town. Alleys are safe here - in fact, everything is safe. I have no qualms about wandering about late at night. I've been roaming around mapless, so I can't attest to where I've been, though I can describe what I've seen.

Having woken up at noon and moved into a room one floor below, I'm quite hungry and go searching for food. This is no easy feat, as food here in Switzerland is quite heavy and even more expensive. I'm in search of the doner kebab vendor I passed by some days ago. But I'm momentarily distracted by the flash of red awning and colorful burst of paper flowers, which can only mean one thing: Teuscher. So I head into Teuscher and proceed to order 5 different chocolates. A co-worker had warned me that chocolates here are different from the States - so rich that you can eat just one and be satisfied. One chicken kebab later, I decide to put her theory to test and find that one can, indeed, consume 5 Teuscher chocolates plus 3 Luxembourgli (macarons) from Confiserie Sprungli in one sitting and still crave more.

Outside the church of Chagall stained glass windows, I see a group of Korean grandparents. I want so badly to talk to them, to find comfort in the familiar, but it seems out of place. By the time I turn around to ask them a question, they've disappeared, and I curse my heightened sense of propriety.

Now I smell of gardenias. I've wandered into Kiehl's, a store I cannot walk by without entering, and have spotted a jar of essential oils. I am as well-versed in Kiehl's inventory as I am in the layout of San Francisco, so I find I must sample these new nondescript products which I've never seen. I vote for gardenia, finding amber to be overpowering.

I stumble upon a set of cobblestone stairs that I feel compelled to climb. I see sky at the end and wonder where this leads. And so up the stairs I go... to an open-air park overlooking the river Limmat. I'm drawn to a group of older men playing chess. The board is carved into the ground, and the chess pieces, massive. I long to be an old soul, shuffling chess pieces with my feet, surrounded by the company of local friends who've found each other through their love for the game. They edge each other on. One decisively, the other, consulting with voyeurs on the sidelines. Maybe I am an old soul. I make my way over to the swings and sketch instead.

One sketch later, I head towards the more crowded side of the park. Perched on a park bench overlooking the river and Zurich churches, I'm overwhelmed. All at once, I'm flooded with the beauty, the wonder, the loneliness, the opportunity that is my present.