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ilyashrayber · 5 years

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ilyashrayber · 6 years

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Glen Park

With things so busy and hectic, I’ve had to delay the publishing of this ‘series’ the past couple weeks. For that, I apologize. It’s always been hard for me to stick with something all the way through to the end, but I am working on it. Which is why I am here, completing a series that I would feel remiss not to. I will be outlining the beauty I’ve found in the last neighborhood that makes up a visual map of some of my favorite places in the city. The one, the only, Glen Park. And I can’t talk about Glen Park without talking about summer camp.

I remember the first time my parents took me to Glen Park. I was around 9 or 10 years old, and I certainly didn’t want to spend my days at some summer camp set right smack dab in the middle of a canyon. I wanted to play Runescape, a 2D MMORPG where, instead of being a snot-nosed brat who demanded pizza for breakfast for all the time, I was a refined, elegant crossbowman who had saved the world more times than I could count. Needless to say, I wasn’t too keen on spending my whole summer outside, doing things that my dad said would ‘build character.’ As a kid, you get to learn that phrases like that are redflags, usually for things you don’t want to do. In this case, I was right. I hated the first few days of camp. But like most things, it was only so bad because my attitude wasn’t in the right place. I learned to love bug hunts and the legends of the canyon. I had began to make friends, the most important part of any summer camp experience. We had formed a fort, along the creek, a sort of right of passage for any group of campers. Forts in Glen Park were like-minded culminations of campers who were all over the map in terms of function and expertise. Some sold things they had made in the craft room to discerning buyers. A few were dedicated to the trading of sticks, for walking, hiking, and even self-defense. Some were sinister pirate-esque crews, who went over and raided other forts, striping them of their most valuable resource, and the camp’s only currency, pinecones.

The pinecone economy is both exceptionally simple and fairly hard to explain. They were naturally found all over camp, and people just began picking them up, and well...hoarding them. They were of no monetary value at all, until they were. In a sense, I guess you could say pinecones at camp were the original cryptocurrency. Kids started fighting over them, trading them for things, and most of all, crying when other kids stole them. It began to get out of control, and in many ways, still is. There’s just something about them... the nice weight in your hand, the beautiful symmetry of the thing, and their natural scent are all factors that I believe make them so valuable in the eyes of the kids. When you couple that with the fact that you can’t buy pinecones at a store, that you actually have to find them at camp, it made them even more valuable. Some kid from Pac Heights has the same chance of finding a pinecone as one from the Excelsior- and there’s a beauty in that.

As the years went by, I went from a camper to a volunteer, volunteer to junior counselor, and junior counselor to, well, counselor. It was a wild ride. Camp, and Glen Park by proxy, were the setting for many firsts in my life- first kiss, first girlfriend, first hotdog, first party, etc. I remember falling in love, when I was a volunteer and had just finished seventh grade. She was my first ‘girlfriend’, if you could call it that. We went on a couple of dates. I loved getting texts from her, which I read off my snow-white and candy-red LG Dare. God, I loved that phone. The way it vibrated when you got any sort of message or call was enough to convince you you were having an anxiety attack. But you weren’t. Someone had just decided to text you at 7:30, on your LG Dare. She gave me a Bauhaus CD and told me it would ‘change my life.’ A girl! Who liked me! Gave me a CD! In seventh grade! If you ever wondered where my dirty habit of romanticizing things started, this was probably it.

I never listened to it. I think it’s been at least 7 or 8 years, and I still feel guilty about that. I was smitten, to say the least. Which is why it was so tragic that, nearing the end of a fun day at Ocean Beach, she told me that she liked girls. Right after kissing me no less, for what would be the last time. Again, if you haven’t realized that my life is one big episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, now is the time to remember that. Either way, romance was always a big thing at camp. As we all got older, our friend group that grew up against the tall trees and fresh air of Glen Park had started to date one another, which was amazing, beautiful, and game changing. For a time. But the more the years went by, the more people realized that perhaps it was where they were, and not who they were with, that made things so great, myself included. Summer camp was a way of amplifying the good and filtering out the bad, which makes returning to ‘real’ life something of a challenge. This doesn’t apply to just romance, but everything, from partying every night, having weekly campfires, and essentially getting paid good money to just hang out. The past couple summers I’ve made a decision to not attend camp. This isn’t as dramatic as it sounds, but it is something that I had been mentally debating for a while. Sometimes, when you love something, it’s better to let it go, and have it stay in your mind as this beautiful thing in your life. The flip side of that is exacerbating it, letting it become something that had long since lost its luster. I wouldn’t be anywhere near the man I am today without the wisdom and friendship I attained in Glen Park over the years. If you ever get a chance to spend a day, a couple hours, or even just a few minutes there, run, don’t walk- you’ll thank yourself later.

PS: thank you for reading, i’ve gotten a lot of nice feedback which has made the transition to college very smooth and has helped soothe my anxiety about a lot of things! you are all the best

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ilyashrayber · 6 years

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North Beach

There has to be something in the air. There has to be something that is telling you that this cannot be real, that this is a dream, that deep down it could not be true. I am not describing sex, or landing a career, or even watching Star Wars for the first time. I am instead trying to convey to you the emotion I have everytime I get to walk through North Beach, a neighborhood situated in the northeastern corner of the city. I think I stumbled upon it by accident, probably lost sometime in middle school, sweating bullets that I was never going to find the 38, and subsequently, never make it home. Even in that instance, I still had a vague grasp on just how freaking cool this place was.

It was only last year that I set off on a (very) poorly planned Europe trip for almost a month. With my best friend in tow, we left America, not knowing just how many shenanigans we would get into while abroad. Europe was amazing, as we went from the narrow alleyways of Paris, sipping fine red wine, to flying by the Swedish countryside on scooters, to discussing socialism while haggling with Danish locals, all the way to (almost) getting locked overnight in a Czech cathedral. It was a paradise, in short. But, for some reason or other, we never made it to Italy. Which is strange, because in all facets of my life, especially those in which I devour art, it seemed like I was skewing more and more towards Italy in terms of interest. My favorite films recently seemed to all stem from minds such as Fellini, Petri, and Pasolini. My taste in music had seen the same shift- I traded in loop pedals and washed out guitar riffs for old school organs and synthesizers. In place of Radiohead, Mitski, and The Strokes, I was now enamored with artists such as Piero Umiliani, Stelvio Cipriani, and Armando Trovajoli, all 70’s lounge legends. They made me feel like my life was one big screening of La Dolce Vita. I knew that my dream car, even though I only have my permit as of writing, had to be made by Fiat or Alfa Romeo in the 70’s. And don’t even get me started on the tailoring of houses like Brioni and Loro Piana. So why didn’t we go to Italy? Well, I guess that’s because I’ve had North Beach my whole life.

I did not grow up in North Beach, and I certainly didn’t know anyone who did when I was younger. It was just a true coincidence that I found myself stumbling among it’s streets one day, blown away by where I was. Just like any neighborhood, it had its own air, it’s own smells, and most of all, it’s own vibe. (Cue the real estate developers.) For a while, North Beach was my little slice of Europe. It felt like a vacation every time I went there, since I lived about an hour away by bus. San Francisco is small for a city, which is why I’ve never thought about it that way. North Beach especially hammers that notion home. The thin alleyways, confusing dead ends, and surprising number of parks located there almost make you feel like you’re in a West Coast version of Call Me By Your Name, except instead of Armie Hammer in a speedo, you have a guy named Derek in a patagonia vest. (The swathes of tech workers have spread to every inch of town, and don’t let anyone tell you different.) Still, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re in a special, almost sacred place. It is not like any other, with the smell of focaccia lingering, mixing in with the scent of less than stellar cigarettes, usually from the same bakery. Is it touristy? Yes. Do I care? Not really. After a while, you just learn to tune them out. Instead, you take note of the old men yelling at each other in front of coffee shops, the beautiful array of pastries in every window, and maybe, if you’re lucky, the people at Z. Chiocolotto’s letting you get two free taffy samples instead of just one. These are all facets of this beautiful, vibrant neighborhood. And now, onto some memories.

It was my senior year of high school, and me and one my best friends were talking about prom, happening later that weekend. I had called the girl I was supposed to go with around 4 or 5 times, anxious that she was going to cancel. Why? Because I was in high school, and that’s how my brain works. Little did I know she was celebrating shabbat with her family and had turned her phone off that night. So, in the midst of my nerves and anxiety, a friend and I went over to get a slice, calm myself , and discuss how we were going to ‘make a move’ this weekend. We went over to Tony’s off Columbus, and got mouth blasted by the best damn pizza I’ve ever eaten. They do calzones there too, but don’t bother with those. Tony’s is probably the only place I’ve ever heard of that has a slicehouse with an actual school for making pizza above it. Internationally recognized and accredited, of course. But again, ignore the calzones. Anything but a slice with pepperoni, or just cheese if you're a veggieboi, seems like sacrilege. We took our slices up to the highest hill in North Beach and looked down on the rest of the city. It was beautiful, with the fog rolling in to make it a classic San Francisco night, along with the ocean breeze coming from a nearby Pacific Ocean. Of course, as picturesque as it sounds, we kept it casual, sitting on the curb of the street, eating pizza, trying not to get hit by some out of townie driving an Uber, happy to just be alive. We began discussing the future. Would we get laid at prom? Eh, probably not. Would we have fun either way? Well, hopefully. Would we still stay friends after high school? Of course we would. We had agreed to be friends for life, no matter how long we went without seeing each other. It was one of those moments where you reflected on your past, appreciated the present, and somehow, in some insane way, even saw a glimpse of your future. And of course, because of the romantic I am, this glimpse involved us back in North Beach, going back to Tony’s, this time with our wives and kids, discussing how much things have changed, but really stayed the same.

I hadn’t been on a date in a while. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Previously, I was seeing (this is a fairly generous word) a girl from down south, one that I met on a free 10-day tour of Israel. Zionist propaganda? Check. Sweltering heat that never, ever let up? Of course. Extreme amounts of sexual tension between young Jewish adults, propped up by the magic of the mediterranean countryside? Oh my god, yes. Anyways, it was on and off, with us being in different places, both geographically and emotionally. After a particularly bad weekend, we broke things off. I was alone. And yet, in the throes of my emotions, I somehow thought that the best way to get over her was to jump right back into the dating scene. In short, I was ready to get hurt again. If the theme to Curb Your Enthusiasm isn’t playing in your head right now, it should be. A couple weeks later, I decided to go out with another girl. Pressed for options and out of my mind in anxiety, I suggested the comforting embrace of North Beach. She said yes.

In truth, we had started over at Glen Park, but walked over to North Beach later in the night. If that seems like a long distance, it’s because it is. But I didn’t mind. My anxiety is quickly squashed whenever I have something physical to do. We walked and talked for a while, got caught in the rain, took pictures with old cars, and talked about how much we loved analog photography. I liked her. So it was really a move when I took her down to Filbert Steps to look at the city, illuminated in light and surrounded by water. The Filbert Steps are right down by Coit Tower, a cluster of old houses entrenched in flora that were once the life work of a gardener who lived there. It’s almost an otherworldly site, seeing these great buildings hidden in the flowers and trees of the hill they were built on. I wanted to explore and get lost, but then we just started talking, and I had completely forgotten about that. She said she needed to be home by 9, she had work the next day. By midnite, after glancing at my watch in the middle of a discussion about French workwear, I could tell that wasn’t going to happen. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Aaron Peskin, the Supervisor for District 8 (which includes North Beach) comes walking down the steps. Because I’m a north beach nerd, I recognized him immediately and asked ‘Hey, are you Aaron Peskin?’. He replied with this: ‘Nope! My name’s Bubba!’. It was probably the greatest thing that had ever happened to me. We had coincidentally sat right outside his house, and we begun to strike up conversation with the man. He was intelligent, knowledgeable, and seemed like a really great guy all around. He even offered me a job cat sitting while he was out of town later that summer. It felt like a dream. Later that night, I walked her back to her MUNI train. It was a good night. We both agreed that there definitely had to be a second date.

North Beach is a paradise, and I got the privilege to work over there this summer as an intern for a low-income housing complex. Many days were stressful, but the best part of it was the walk down Columbus on my way home, passing old cafes, Fiat repair shops, and old mom and pop bike stores. It made me feel good to be alive. In many ways, the whole neighborhood does. And that’s not something you can really describe, no matter how many words you put on paper.

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ilyashrayber · 6 years

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The Mission

When I first entered high school, I knew absolutely nothing. No work ethic, no plans, and perhaps most alarming, almost no friends to speak of. I was so young, and yet, it felt like the world was already closing in around me, as if some metaphorical caution tape was already cropping up on things I wanted to do and people I wanted to meet. I had no knowledge of what was around me, and even more so, it felt like I never would. But as you get older, things start to change, and you feel more and more doors open up, one after the other, in a way that could only make sense with the passage of time. If I’m coming off as vague, it is because it’s hard for someone like myself to specify exact moments when you feel validated, satisfied, and as if you’ve broken away from an almost self-imposed mental barrier. But if there was a place that embodied the transition from the timid, smelly, and raggedy boy I was to the slightly less timid, smelly, and raggedy man (by Jewish law) I am today, it would be the Mission District.

I would be remiss to bring up the Mission without addressing the growing, all-encompassing wave of change that is hitting it right now. What used to be a primarily Latinx community comprised of families, artists, and blue collar workers has been all but washed away by white software engineers in search of some strange, exoticized concept of ‘urban grit’ and ‘authenticity’. Where there once were family owned groceries, optometrists, and photo studios, I now see exorbitant pre-fixe menus, ‘organic’ clothing stores, and the occasional (read: extremely common) misuse of local history to sell me something. I am exhausted, and I don’t even live there. Additionally, the privilege of being a cis, white man is something that makes me just at fault when I do not speak up as those who are actively destroying a piece of what makes this city so dynamic. It is a tricky tightrope to walk on, and the best thing people like myself can do is listen, and help when asked, whether that is giving our time, money, or a mix of the two to help preserve the integrity, and magic, of the Mission.

I remember the first time I ever had a sleepover. It wasn’t with the kid next door to me, or at a birthday party, or even in the first 14 years of my life. Instead, my first sleepover happened in my freshman year of high school. This isn’t super uncommon among children of immigrants, but nonetheless, I felt like I was missing a key piece of the American experience. When it came to mind, before I actually went to one, I had, like most things, romanticized each and every single aspect of a sleepover. I had imagined a world where we would get to the house, only to be greeted by plates of fresh grapes, served to us on priceless marble while enjoying French brut in tall glasses. Instead, we made eggs at midnight and drank Tropicana Orange Peach Mango (henceforth known as ‘OPM’) straight from the carton. In place of sampling liquors from around the world and discussing literature, we downed Kirin Ichiban and talked about girls from our high school we would definitely want to go out with but definitely would have no idea what we would even begin to do if we ever did. Usually crouched down, in the basement, trying to stealthily sip our brew while an adult was upstairs. All this happened in a Victorian on the corner of 27th and Guerrero, a house purchased by my friend’s father for $70,000 right when he got out of the Navy in the 1970’s. It had four bedrooms, an insane kitchen leading out into the backyard, and a circular top floor window, one situated right above the bed of my friend who would always invite me over. It was through this window that I had witnessed car break-ins, smelled the waft of burritos only a couple blocks over, and totally messed with other people trying to get in at the front door. They are good, sacred memories that put a smile on my face when I remember them, both in their quality and the sheer quantity that I have of them.

The Victorian sat on the cusp of Noe Valley and the Mission, leaning more to the former when you went east and more to the latter when you went west. And boy, did we go west a lot. We would often leave the house at night, with no plan at all, burnt out from playing video games, and simply walk down Mission Street trying to process what it was we were seeing as little baby birds sprouting their wings for the first time. People were out drinking and dancing, the air had a palpable energy to it, and it seemed as if everything was right with the world. It was a sensation I knew I wouldn’t have for a long time, but I wanted it anyway. Street vendors, taquerias, and the only CEX in the city were the main draws, but it was the friendly faces, life experience, and exposure to cultures outside our own that really made us want to stay.

The stretch of 24th Street that begins on Mission and ends on Potrero is perhaps my favorite dozen or so blocks in the city. It has everything anyone could need, ever. Casa Lucas is the exclusive grocery store I shop at when my folks are out of town and I’m calling the shots, and believe me, it’s worth every penny of the Muni fare I feel disillusioned to pay. The fruits and veggies there taste better than any trustfund soulcycle hayes valley bullshit they’re trying to feed you over at Whole Foods, and at a fraction of the price. Plus, they’re the only grocery in the city I’ve found that stocks the very specific kind of kola I’ve become dependant on, imported all the way from Oaxaca. When I say that this kola fucked up my world, I am being modest in the effect it had on me.. I don’t even know the name of it, but I reach for the stuff everytime I’m on 24th because it has that kind of hold on me. Days get brighter, and nights get longer, whenever I feel the sweet, smooth liquid gold pass through me. Anyways. Moving on. Not only does 24th have the most kick-ass grocery in the entire world, they also have maybe the best cheap seafood ever, in the form of Basa Express. Ignore the sign that was made in Microsoft Paint. Appreciate the fact that this is a no frills, what you see is what you get kind of seafood place where you can grab a freshly made California roll for 5 dollars. With ceviche and sashimi being just a little bit more than that, it’s a refreshing change of pace from the recent increase of trendy seafood places with exposed wood and vintage buoys hanging everywhere. There is no exposed wood here. There is no old photo of a ship captain the owner bought on eBay. There is no lengthy description of how the fish lived and died along with a short obituary. It is just good, cheap seafood that you can feel good about eating.

Walk up and down 24th and you’ll realize the plethora of people and places that feel like hidden gems, but have been there all along. I stand by Humphry Slocombe as the best ice cream in the city, while the vast majority of my friends cry out in support of Mitchell’s, another place that is very good but in no way a competitor to Humphry and his offerings. The classic at Humphry’s is to walk in, have no idea what you want, and then have the young college kids behind the counter begrudgingly ask if you want a sample. That is just the way it works. If I can just be bougie for one second here; they have a Wine & Cheese flavor. And it’s delicious. If this is the hill I die on, so be it. After a nice little ice cream break, I like to peruse the various cultural offerings, in the forms of records and books that 24th has to offer. I always have to walk into Pyramid Records, which, dare I say, is the most finely curated selection of wax in the entire Bay Area. Is there a huge selection? No. Do they have deep discounts and unbeatable prices? Not really. But is there a dude behind the counter who compliments my sneakers everytime I’m there? Yes. There is. For myself, Pyramid has a beautiful mix of international, lounge, and soundtracks on vinyl, which just so happen to be some of my favorite genres in music. It’s all designed in a super clean, minimalist-but-nowhere-near-boring type of aesthetic. I feel like I’m in a music video for a bedroom pop artist when I’m in there, and that’s all I could ever ask for. When talking about literature however, it’s hard to beat Alley Cat, a big bookstore with a gallery and event space in the back. I’ve picked up some of my favorite graphic novels from this spot, and their mystery section makes me feel good. Adobe Books a few blocks up is great too, and it sports a much more intimate setting for falling in love with any number of books, local or not. I’ve seen many a performance inside of Adobe, ranging from Chicana poetry, all the way to a solo performance from the bassist for Real Estate. Great books, great vibe, and it always feels nice to support a place that feels like an institution. For any bookstore, that should be a slam dunk. And it is. Usually directly into my wallet.

There are tons of other great places on 24th, especially if you’re into just sitting down and having a good time. There’s the OG Philz, a coffee shop with perhaps the comfiest furniture in any cafe, and Haus, half a block down, where I may or may not have a crush on every single female barista that works there. Again, this is unconfirmed. I would really love to recommend Wise Son’s, a jewish deli with an insane breakfast salad, but every since I took edibles right before I ate there and thought I was in 1920s New Orleans, it has been a tough sell. They have a very nice restroom, however, that they’ll let you use if you ask nicely. St. Francis Fountain, a diner nearing the very end of 24th, has the best pancakes in the city. I am sorry but everyone got together and voted on it, and there will be no recount. Whether chocolate chip, banana, or even, dare I say, vegan, these guys are a home run every. Single. Time. It is almost uncanny how good they are, and are the definition of a food that is ‘good for the soul and not so much the love hips.’ Lastly, when you come up on Mission, you’ll no doubt see a line going out the door for the much beloved El Farolito. If you ask me? It’s good, but it’s definitely not my favorite. I try to explain it in terms of ice cream flavors. When you take your kid to go get ice cream, you always start with vanilla. There’s a reason it’s the default, you know? Well rounded, satisfying, and very inoffensive. I feel the exact same about El Farolito. (Cue the thinkpieces attacking me.) It is the vanilla ice cream of taquerias. My favorite, however, is also in fact on 24th, and it goes by the name of Taqueria Guadalajara. More salsa options, less rice, and juicier meat is what drives me to make this almost sacrilegious decision. Plus, there’s never a line. And that in and of itself should be celebrated.

The Mission is so, so many things. But most of all, it is not mine. And it’s probably not yours, either. I simply play, and for a little bit, worked there. There is so much to celebrate about this neighborhood, and so, so much that we as a city should try to preserve, even if it considered by many to be ground zero for gentrification. Be respectful. Think about your actions. How will this affect others? If you live there, try broadening it to a macro level. How will this affect my community, one that is already going through an incredible amount of change, and the heartbreak that comes with that? What can I do to make things better? Always say thank you, and respect those that came before you. These seem obvious, but it’s easy to forget with everything going on. At the end of the day, I like to hang out in the Mission, and I bet you, the reader, probably do too. So let’s just try and not be complete asshats about what we choose to do in a community that is experiencing an immense shift, both culturally and economically. Let’s just try and be a little better next time we’re there.

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ilyashrayber · 6 years

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Introduction//The Richmond

When one arrives in Paris, it is overwhelming. The smell of fresh baked pastries, the cobbled streets, and the sense that everyone but you is enjoying a glass of wine are so cliche at this point, it borders on self-parody. Yet, it is a sight to behold and an experience everyone should become familiar with at least once. In many ways, one feels as if they have been planted in the center of culture and the cutting edge; in the city that literally birthed the meaning of avant-garde. For many, it is the perfect city.

San Francisco, however, is nothing like that. We trade chambray for branded hoodies, tartare for burritos, and experimental IPA’s in place of wine. I have a lot to say about how this city has changed, transformed, maligned, deformed, expanded, fell, and risen over the course of my life here. I was born here, and, luckily, I was raised here. Which is why it is so deeply challenging at times to put my cynicism away, even for a little while. The magic that seeps through the pores of almost every inch of this place, and the growing, gnawing fear that one day it will be all gone, for good, are on my mind a lot. The thought that one day I won’t be able to raise my own children here is heartbreaking, disillusioning, and most of all, evergrowing. What will become of this place in twenty years? Ten? What about a measly two, when I plan to graduate from university? Will anything be as I remember it? In some small ways, things here will never change. But for the most part, it is inevitable. This is hard to grasp, especially for a man who has always been leaning more towards the former rather than the latter of being emotionally intelligent. But it would be a shame not to remember what made me fall in love in the first place.

As much as I love complaining about San Francisco, the only thing I love more is celebrating it. And I can’t find a better place to start doing that than the Richmond district.

The Richmond, for me at least, stretches from the cold, cold waves of Ocean Beach all the way to, let’s say, Congregation Emanu-El, over on Arguello Street, where, coincidentally, I graduated high school. (The ceremony was beautiful, the catering...questionable.) It’s within these couple of miles that I fell in love, celebrated success, lamented failures, watched films, held hands, yelled at the top of my lungs, laughed until air become thin, cried till I choked, and smiled till it hurt. Most of all, it is one of the few places I consider to be truly ‘home’, and I guess that’s because I live there.

I guess I’ll kick things off with an old favorite of mine, Lake Street. The dignified, large homes of Lake Street serve to remind myself, and everyone, that San Francisco will never be the bustling, fervent metropolis that local politicians and real estate brokers market it to be. Instead, San Francisco is and always will be small villages, tied together on a very long, yet thin string. And that’s okay. Some neighborhoods, and microcosms within those neighborhoods, will feel completely alien from those even five minutes away. It is the magic of this city that one can feel they’ve stepped into another life entirely by straying from they started. Lake Street is a testament to this. There, lies a street that looks like it could’ve been ripped out of a magazine advertising the suburbs of Connecticut. Tree lined streets, multiple embassies, and world class views make up a lot of this place, and it’s hard to shake that one is still in a city famous for its bohemian ideology, and not flipping through a 1970’s Brooks Brothers catalog. And I am fine with that. I feel fancy when I walk down Lake Street nowadays, a sharp contrast to my early years there.

When I was younger, my grandparents would take me to the playground on the corner of Lake and 19th, a much more rough-and-tumble version of that one that stands there now. My grandmother said when the kids saw me, they would all yell ‘Ilya is here! Ilya is here!’. I think they would yell that because it meant they had someone who could finally be the seeker, monster, or robber in whatever game they were playing, going off with friends they had already made to form the hiders, scientists, and cops. I, in truth, didn’t mind. It was just nice to have a role, no matter how small.

On a recent bike ride through, I saw the big, brown wooden castles, one I had always envisioned as Victorian mansions when I was a child, replaced with bright, plastic play structures, ones that seemed like a visual manifestation of the always connected, overprotective parenting culture I’m sure is popular with the area. With my parents being Soviet immigrants, as long as I wasn’t sent to a gulag, or the American equivalent, juvenile hall, they were fine with anything. And my grandparents felt exactly the same way. To babushka and deduzhka, this country is and always will be an insane paradise where anything is possible as long as you put the work in. Which might make sense as to why they always ask if I’m getting ready for the LSAT, because in their heart of hearts, I am going to be a lawyer, and then, god willing, president. I have no idea how to break the news that I am a design major to them. Perhaps they had the right idea however, because if I ever wanted to live on Lake Street, I would definitely have to be a lawyer. Unless I can wait for the eventual housing crash, right? Guys?

Is there somewhere, near or far, that serves as a compass, a sort of ‘default’ in your life? A place that no matter where you go, for whatever reason, comes to mind when you’re somewhere new and you say, audibly, oh, it’s like “x”. Well, for one reason or another, for myself, that is Geary Boulevard. There is nothing special about Geary Boulevard. Or perhaps everything about it is special, and I’ve simply been going there for so long that I’ve lost sight of what that was. That isn’t to say, however, that the street is bad or uninteresting, in fact, quite the opposite. It has everything you need. A post office, a karate dojo, a decent burrito spot, and some criminally underrated donut joints. To me, it is simply ‘the street’. When I need to go pick something up or send something off, I say I’m headed over to ‘the street’, and my parents know exactly what it means. Usually, my mother will ask me to pick up some bread for the house, only from Europa Plus though, you know how your father gets with american bread, she’ll say. When the roles are reversed, my dad will remind me to pick up a pastry for mom, always from Moscow-Tbilisi on 20th Avenue. She always loved the princess cake there, and my dad always loved getting it for her. But he has recently discovered Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern is now streaming, and is much less inclined to leave the house. So he gets me to do it for him. I don’t mind. Mom is a princess, after all.

In some ways it is the Toyota Camry of places. Not only will Geary Boulevard outlive me, it will outlive you, your family, and probably the entire next generation of humans on Earth. All while getting reasonable mileage and not offending anyone. It will come in a plethora of nice colors, but the vast majority of people will probably pick grey. It may sound dull, but if I’m being quite honest, there’s a certain beauty in that, one that I can’t seem to pin down anywhere else.

Only a couple minute’s walk from my house, Land’s End is where I go to think. Oh boy, did you hate reading that as much as I did writing it out? Well, either way, it’s true. When I look out to the ocean, the deep, bubbling, yet completely silent sea of blue, I feel at peace. Many revelations have occured to me here, some big, but mostly small: The only flavor of LaCroix really worth making a fuss about is apricot. Time is a flat circle. I still enjoy reading manga. The fact I am able to give all of myself in falling in love with someone over and over again is something to celebrate, not worry about. Helvetica will always be the best font. I have already made some of the best friends I could ever ask for, and am invariably excited to make more. Crayons have been getting smaller. Like I said, some big... but mostly small.

I’ve had some great memories at Land’s End as well, ranging from going to cave shows shut down by police and having to carry all the equipment back up, to seeing cave shows for a little bit longer than expected, then having them subsequently shut down by the police, and then having to carry all the equipment back up. There really is something about caves that makes sound travel, isn’t there? But, truthfully, there have been some magical moments thanks to the ingenius of the DIY scene here in San Francisco, and these cave shows were definitely one of them. I believe the first time I ever ‘slapped the bag’ was at the behest of a girl with a nose ring who looked exactly like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. Can a man fall in love while chugging down a half liter of Burgundy Franzia? In that moment, it seemed as if anything was possible. I looked over to the end of the cave after downing it, seeing the Cliff House illuminated in the moonlight. The rock and ruins were just as beautiful to stare at as the building was. It really made one think about the concept of simple pleasures. Sometimes, you simply want to build a house on a cliff. And so, they did. And I’m sure the people that did knew back then what I realize every time I’m at Land’s End now- the thundering, soothing sound of the water mixes in with the trees and stone surrounding you, and you can’t help but feel everything will be fine. Because it will be fine. How could anything be so powerful as to make where you are right now seem unimportant?

The Richmond is many things, but in my mind, I have always imagined it as a hearth, or the area surrounding a fireplace. When I ride the 38 after a long day of work, or meandering somewhere else in the city, then get off and walk the block or two it takes to get to my house after my stop, it feels as if I am braving the last breadth of a long, harsh winter. As I approach my little igloo on 41st Avenue, I begin to smile. I am where I should be. I am home. I make a fire and go to sleep.

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ilyashrayber · 6 years

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