I am a southern California transplant, once removed for a one year stint in Portland. I was following a boyfriend in fulfilling his very concrete dream, and hoping to a find a dream and identity of my own. In Portland, I learn to appreciate every summer evening that lasted until nine p.m., every tree that looked aflame in the fall, every twinkling light on my block, and every strangely dressed native with animal hats and zebra striped leggings who made homelessness look more like camping. It is a year of big trees, clean air, and endless creativity. My experience there teaches me more about myself then anything.
But it doesn’t work out, so I follow the advice of my friends and family and head south to another foreign land, my big sister as my tour guide. This would be second plunge in the relocating game and I know it would be awful, possibly even more difficult than the first time.
The fact that I have moved at all is fairly miraculous given I am a gal of familiarity. If it were a drug, I would OD on it. I love knowing what to expect. Picking up and moving to a different state...again, without a job, an apartment, a sense of regularity, and the comfort of... well... anything familiar, formally induced instant nausea followed by panic.
But it is decided, what had become my "regular" doesn’t fit anymore. I feel like the winner of The Biggest Loser who is still trying to wear the same, oversized, ill fitting garments. I make decisions I would never have anticipated and pick up and move again. Each time I leave more behind, yet gain so much more than my car can be packed with.
So I morph again and find myself in San Francisco, taking in the practically 90 degree hills, the crowded streets at mid-day, and the constant construction somewhere. Coming to San Francisco to live made me hearken back to my first visit as a teenager, driving through the city and onto the Golden Gate Bridge and feeling that, while the city felt so much bigger than me, it was allowing me a spot in it.
Now I am a San Francisco inhabitant. Even though the streets of downtown are constantly flooded with people, it feels very confirming. This was what “life” looks like. Colors, the chatter foreign tongues, people laughing, smiling, crying, picketing, giant historic buildings, and flashing neon lights. This is life. Most afternoons I can hear someone practicing on his bagpipes at a nearby park. I am so enamored by San Francisco and all she has to offer that I hardly notice his lack of expertise, and am only charmed.
Being a recent import to a new city means more transitions, like hitting the town sans company. My sister-guide, is now gone. Off on her dream honeymoon, no less, and I am left to fend for myself. I have never thought I would have the confidence to ask for a table for one or sit at a crowded bar by myself and I cringe at the mere thought of it. How can I possibly go out without friends? Well I don’t have any. So I decide to become one of those girls who can.
My extreme loneliness forces me to gather my courage to go out on my own and I decide to visit the bar inside the Omni hotel, Bob’s Steakhouse. The Omni sounded like a classy place where important and interesting people might go so I slap on some red lipstick in direct juxtaposition to my feelings of unease and walk right in. After a sharp inhale I realize there is no place for me to sit. All of the appropriate places are taken. Alas, I would have to sit at a cocktail two topper running the risk of looking like I am stood up, a single girl’s worst fear. In my head I find myself, hastily devising a story as to why I have no company while firmly plastering a pleasant smile on my face to dispel any confusion of my situation. Then I realize that absolutely no one is looking at me and I am surrounded by couples over 65 and a few overweight assumed former football players. I relax my slightly crazed grin and take a sip of my wine. It takes one glass of Sauvignon Blanc before two old men ask to buy my next and request my company at their table. Whether they feel bad for me or are truly attempting to woe a girl young enough to be their granddaughter, I’ll never know. They are nice to me and pleasant company. They are also amazed that I have come out on my own. They called me “bold.” They even offer a few priceless pieces of wisdom I couldn’t possibly live another day without knowing, such as “learn to play golf.”
My next experiment in plunging myself into San Francisco’s social scene is Father’s day. My year in Portland had already taught me the difficulties of spending holidays alone. This year is no different; I feel the pang of loneliness once again. But I decide to face it head on and embrace my new city to fill the void of missing my family. With almost gusto, I practically skip to South Park. Nothing will bring me down today come hell or high water, I tell myself! When I get there, this little oasis of a park is totally deserted. The only inhabitants are a homeless man completely passed out on the grass and me. No families on the grass, no children running around me shrieking, swinging, and skipping in the grass. Only a set of abandoned swings swinging lightly by the breeze. Under one of the swings, I see a disheveled bouquet of flowers left lying on the sand. The entire scene is so very disappointing, and yet I decide those flowers are for me, my very own Father’s Day fanfare: "Happy Father's day, Adrienne. Welcome to SF." "Thank you kind homeless man.” I say, “These are lovely." I take a picture and move on.
But as painful as all of this is sounding, I am starting to get the hang of this and get myself out there once more. I saw a listing for an event at the Intercontinental Mark Hopkins hotel and decide it is my next social experiment. So I head to the hotel all the way up to the Top of the Mark for their movie night and wine tasting. I squeeze myself into an elevator filled only with what felt like 100 well-dressed couples, stand in a long line and then triumphantly walk up to the podium to put my name in with the hostess. Our conversation went like this.
“How many in your party?”
“One.”
“Will anyone be joining you?”
“No.”
“So you’re alone”
“Yes.”
Three questions and answers to clarify my lone status. Yes, I was alone! The awkwardness was palpable and yet now I’m starting to find these situations almost funny. It is extremely crowded and there is a five to ten minute wait, just long enough for me to squeeze my little party-of-one self onto the window seat cushion next to all the couples talking intimately. Someone asks me if I want my picture taken and I giggle only slightly hysterically. A picture of me on my solo-date? Of course not! I text my little sister about what just happened and her response is “do it, and send it to me.” Maybe she needs proof. Just like ripping off a bandaid or getting a flu shot, the night itself isn’t as bad as I had dreaded. I have lived through the social taboo asking for a table for one. I order a cheese plate and glass of wine and enjoy the tiny corner of the film on the screen I can just barely see past a large pillar. “A job well done, Adrienne. Jolly ho. You did it again,” I tell myself.
It’s still so surprising to me that even at 27 I am still reminding myself to “be you.” It is on a constant movie reel in my head spinning around and around like a motivational poster in a third grade classroom. It is such a simple message but completely necessary and easily forgotten. It seems that no matter how much you think you might know or understand what is going on around you, it is so easy to become muddled and jaded and lost. Moving to a new city with almost nothing but everything to gain has really made that really clear to me. It's not my turn to have it all together. It hasn't been my turn for a while, but it's taken me this long to realize it. Rather than feeling I am akin to the "have nots" and as though I am not really living, I am accepting the gift that is in front of me that I have been too scared to unwrap.
It's my turn to be spontaneous, crazy, and single in a new city with reckless abandon. It's my turn to go on lots of dates with lots of people, some relationships lasting longer than others. I will take each for what it is and reconcile my losses with the many free drinks. It's my turn to struggle a ton and be poor but there will be something just barely cool about it. I will make the most fun memories now...and then it will all come together...slowly. I'll get the job, I'll get the friends, I'll get the man. I'll get the adult life I worked so hard to achieve and I'll get the stability. Just not right now.
Rather than hoping for better, I've stopped having expectations out of my life. Rigid ones anyway. It seems it only becomes worth living when you stop letting it disappoint you by placing standards and guidelines that you couldn't possibly control. When you finally give up, relinquish control and let the adventure unfold, it becomes fabulous.
Fabulous can mean a lot of things but for me it meant allowing the good things to feel good. Anything. If it felt good, I would bask in it. It didn't matter what it was or what it meant or if it was on time or enough. Just taking it all in. And for people, it meant taking time to figure out who I was first...and then seeing how everyone else fits into my world. Taking a break from trying to fit into theirs. Or any other crazy prediction of a life I believed I should be living. Doing this feels like breathing when this whole entire time I was sucking through a stir stick at Coffee Bean, trying so hard to get more.
