my san francisco home

Took a month to get everything all organized and decorated.

Another month to get the pictures up.

Just in case anyone out there still reads personal blogs, here's a peek into my teeny tiny studio in the city. It's about 250 square feet, less than half the size of my beloved home of 18 months in Palo Alto, but it's all the space I need, plus a 25-minute walk from the nephews and around the corner from great restaurants & parks, my SF surrogate parents, and all the mass transit vehicles I could ever want. Oh, and there's a huge avocado tree in the backyard. For reals.

Special credits go to: Ikea (furniture), Brady (moving incl. furniture dissembling & rebuilding), Claire (that awesome painting hanging on the wall), Blik (wall decals), Hortica (my very first houseplant), The Container Store (everything else. You should have seen me coming home on the Muni with my burden of 2 ginormous bags full of boxes, crates, drawer organizers, hanging shelves, and all manner of other, uh, containers).

Who wants to come visit? If I move my bike into the hall closet, there's totally enough floor space for my air mattress, I swear.

so california right now

So I'm at lunch today, devouring my delectable In-N-Out burger & fries on the sunny patio under the palm trees and hugging the freeway, and it strikes me just how very california this is.

You know what I mean?

Yeah. I'm still in love with this place.

photo credit: unsureshot (flickr)

hold on just a second don't tell me this one you know i know this one i know this song i know this one i know this song

So. I'm currently floating on the aftereffects of one of the best weekends of my entire life. Seriously. It was like a non-stop party. And not the kind that makes me claustrophobic and sends me dissolving into a corner. It was, however, the kind with many much musics (not to be confused with many much moosen).

Friday night was populated with salsa, cumbia, bachata, and my personal favorite merengue. Lesson 1: always say yes to a night at the salsa club even though you went to bed at 4am the night before. Lesson 2: sometimes it may be best to keep your mouth shut and not let on that you speak Spanish. Lesson 3: eventually the inebriated Nicaraguan who wants your phone number will settle for your hotmail address, and everyone goes home safe and happy.

Saturday night saw epic performances by Ra Ra Riot, Andrew Bird, and Death Cab. As you can probably imagine, I went mostly for Andrew Bird. And he did not disappoint. Nothing short of phenomenal, in fact. Since none of the little video that I got is good enough (i.e., I was too impatient to hold up the camera for more than 30 seconds and/or the microphone picked up my neighbors' chatter better than the music) to bother uploading it, you'll just have to trust me on the amazingness factor. Or go see him for yourself. I highly recommend the latter.

Just say the word, Andrew, and I will run away with you and your sock monkey and your victrola.

We sang happy birthday to him. While he was on stage, we got a wee bit of rain. Then this happened:

And then there was Death Cab. And they were awesome. I've never listened to them particularly obsessively (as I have with many others), but I found myself singing along to most of the songs they played. Tons of fun. (There's a good deal of video from the show already up on youtube; just search for "death cab july 11 berkeley" or some such similar string, if you so desire.)

After the concert we watched this wonderful documentary called Young at Heart. Cackle-and-guffaw-out-loud funny, and beautiful in so many ways.

Here's a taste:

You should watch it, too.

Then there was Sunday, highlighted by barbecued goodness, a new friend, a special visit from an old friend, and a motorcycle ride. Not to mention the freakin' gorgeous Palo Alto weather.

Plus, I got to talk on the phone to Claire, Joseph, Mom, Dad, and Vanessa.

Can life get better? I submit that it cannot!

two reasons why i love california in the summer

1. Outdoor yoga.

Once a week I end the work day with yoga class, on a shady spot of lawn outside tile-roofed, arcade-lined building with a Spanish name on a peaceful, idyllic campus. Bliss. Then when I come home I feel like dancing. And I usually do. Like an idiot. But you'll have to take my word for it, since there are as of yet no witnesses to this phenomenon.

2. Fresh apricots.

When I was growing up—wait. I'm still doing that. Let's try that again: when I was a kid in Maryland, we always had dried apricots in the pantry. Always. Many a school lunch included a little sandwich bag (or snack bag, once they became available—remember how great they were?) full of dried apricots. Though I never grew to flat-out dislike them, I often tired of them. Every once in a while I wondered why other kids seemed not to come from environments so heavily saturated with dried apricots.

At the time of year when fresh apricots became available in the stores, Mom would always bring some home. But she was never satisfied. They were never as good as her memories of the fresh apricots of her California youth. I never understood what the fuss was about. I mean, I've always loved fresh fruit. Even in the days (and they were many—sorry Mom&Dad) when my I-will-eat-this list contained about fifteen specific items, fruit was always acceptable. But fresh apricots never impressed me. The ones I tried at home in Maryland were for the most part bland, mealy, or worse: both. I didn't see the point, but Mom kept buying them, kept trying and hoping that they would live up to her expectations of the apricot in its most exalted form.

Well. Mom: my apologies. Now I understand.

PS: if in the course of your grocery shopping you happen to see angelcots, get them. They are called Saintly with good reason.

spotted at whole foods last night

Sometimes, when I am at the grocery store at night, I see things that amuse me enough that I must record them.

Remember the Coca Puffs in Utah? Well, here in California I've found a milk substitute called Hemp Dream. Pour those two into a bowl, and that's part of your complete breakfast trip. 

I know, hemp itself isn't a drug. 

Neither is coca. 

I'm just having fun. As were, apparently, the Hemp Dream package designers:

Subtle, yet effective.

28: vine

I spent the afternoon in Napa.

Yes, a day in wine country. And I don't drink. 

I inhaled the volatile esters of some nice fruity cabernets and for once in my life the smell of alcohol didn't make me physically ill. As my friend tasted and compared the 2003, 2002, and 1999 vintages, I read the lovely, sometimes fanciful descriptions of the different varieties, one of which was purportedly "opulently structured." 

We got to see the Quixote winery, the whimsical Hundertwasser's last design. (I mentioned the Austrian architect once before.)

The landscape in Napa county is stunning: all that greenery and the rows of old-growth vines rolling by, the occasional babbling brook, and dramatic open skies. Plus, wildflower season is coming on, so a rainbow of poppies and my favorite yellow daffodils were popping up along the roadside. And the air is so clean and refreshing. The word idyllic comes to mind. So does fantasyland.

As my friend made his purchases, I checked out the labels for design inspiration. Eponymous is nice, as is Blackbird. And there was another one that I made a mental note of, but I've forgotten it already. This is why I usually write things down.

As we drove back toward the city, the odd little world of monoculture and almost surreal natural and societal environment melted away behind us. And yet I know that somehow it still exists. As do a lot of other microcosms that I have little to no contact with in daily life. In some ways, it's not really that small of a world, after all.

(all photos mine, of quixote winery)

22: or until golden

There's nothing quite like baking in the middle of the night.

This batch of cookies is the first thing I've baked since I came to California. Yes, that's right. It's been nearly seven months. I'm not quite sure why it took me so long. Maybe I just needed a worthy cause. You know, besides, 'I want cookies and therefore I am going to bake three dozen and eat them all by myself.' Doesn't make a lot of sense.

It was Claire's idea. And she always has good ideas. (And it just so happens that today he admitted to having a serious sweet tooth.)

So I consulted my new copy of How to Cook Everything, selected my recipes, and went out to gather the ingredients, including all the essential "baking needs" (I always found that designation on grocery store aisles sort of amusing. I'm weird). I didn't have any flour. I didn't even have sugar. Not to mention cookie sheets.

It wasn't until sometime after midnight that I got around to the chemistry experiment (yeah, yeah, I'm lying about the time again). I apparently have no proper measuring spoons, so I totally guessed on the baking powder. Also, I completely forgot the vanilla. Luckily, the cookie sheets fit in my somewhat diminutive oven, and the finished product turned out quite nice, I think.

Behold: 

Chocolate Chip 

Blueberry 

Oatmeal Cookies

There's something about baking sweet treats in the middle of the night, making messes in the kitchen while everyone is asleep, that's... I don't know, really. Like it just fits, somehow, even though it may seem unusual. The act of mixing the dough and then arranging bits of it in neat rows on a cookie sheet, it nestles into the dark, quiet hours between midnight and dawn, as a drowsy cat on a sunny windowsill. Like it belongs there, like this is the time baking should be done.

I must say it's more fun with a partner in crime. I'm thinking of the epic Larson cinnamon rolls, countless pans of late-night brownies and lemon bars, and industrial-sized batches of rice-krispie-oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies that I used to bake with Claire (of course, who else?) It's not so bad going it alone, though.

21: replenish

I suddenly want to be a farmer.

I have been reading The Omnivore's Dilemma, Michael Pollan's fascinating exploration of our nation's industrial food system and some possible alternatives. Representing the alternative in food production, Joel Salatin attained something akin to rockstar status once he was featured in Pollan's book in 2006.

Mr. Salatin spoke at Stanford on Thursday evening. Several hundred people turned out to hear him, and he did not disappoint. Certainly no country bumpkin, he is clearly a very intelligent man who is entirely devoted to (a stance which includes motivation by love) his farming by smart and unconventional (oddly, most conventional methods in this country are simply counterintuitive) methods. Plus, he is a thoroughly entertaining speaker (not to mention inspirational, even though that sounds kind of cheesy).

A self-described "Christian libertarian capitalist environmentalist lunatic," Salatin is the owner of Polyface Farms in rural Swoope (pronounced swope, with a long o), Virginia. His "beyond organic" farm is grass-based and thrives on naturally-evolved interspecies relationships. He calls it allowing chickens to express their chickenness, pigs to express their pigness, and so on. As descriptors of Polyface, words like holistic, circular, and sustainable join the ranks of idyllic, pastoral, and communal.

As a Christian, Salatin believes that his mission is to be a steward of the land and to return it to its Garden of Eden state. 

There are plenty of good reasons why people of faith ought to be conscientious of the way they treat the earth and all its inhabitants, including humans of course, but also all other forms of life. I remember attending an excellent lecture with Julie in our freshman year of college. Professor George Handley spoke about LDS perspectives on environmental stewardship. I don't remember any specifics now, but I do remember getting a general impression that I might articulate as "Duh, why don't more people see how much sense this makes? The gospel + environmentalism = resonance." I really ought to write more about this another day; I think it's just one facet of how the gospel can be applied, as we like to say, to everyday life, and with eternal consequence for good. (I just discovered this LDS Earth Stewardship website; will be checking it out and likely reporting on it here later.)

Mr. Salatin reports that, based on the demographics of current U.S. farm owners, about 50% of the nation's farms will change hands in the next 10-15 years. Somehow I find that really exciting. Without too much imagination, I can see myself in a decade or so farming a nice green patch of land in the central valley, perhaps. Maybe you'd like to purchase the farm adjacent and we can be neighbors as we return to our agricultural heritage and commune with the land and its creatures?

(photo: turkeys at Polyface, by Spicy Bear)

19: flower (one who flows)

Back in the day, I played a lot of Scrabble. 

For a while during the last year in G5, three or four games a week was pretty standard. The board frequently came out during thesis breaks or What Not To Wear marathons in OM, too. In contrast, in the nearly seven months since I moved to California, I had not played a single game of Scrabble until last night. 

Without Claire or Vanessa nearby, and without roommates besides my alternate personalities, circumstances apt for Scrabbling present themselves far less frequently than they did in my former life in Utah.

Last night, however, I met a new friend. We're just two people reaching out to one another, breaking out from isolation, seeking a little warmth and unity amid a cold and fragmented society. And arranging lettered tiles on a grid.

The product:

Making words is fun. 

Making friends is delightful. 

Making words with a new friend? Marvelous.

01: inspiration

I've been inspired.

NPR's All Songs Considered has opened my ears to a whole new world of wonderful music. That's not really news; I've been listening to the podcasts for quite some time now and consequently discovered many newfound musical loves. I just want to take a moment to recognize its important role in my life and to give thanks to the host, Bob Boilen. Not that he reads my blog or even knows it exists, but still, I feel like it's something I should do.

Mr. Boilen just announced the third annual RPM Challenge, whose motto is "Record an album in 28 days, just because you can." I don't know how to record an album. I've been thinking more about musical creation lately, so... maybe next year.

In the meantime, I am feeling inspired by the challenge and slightly embarrassed by what turned out to be a rather poor blogging showing during the month of January. Therefore, during the month of February, I will record a rhetorical album in 28 days. 

I don't guarantee thematic or even stylistic coherence like you might find in a musical album, but I will add a track every day for the remainder of the month, just because I can. I have recently discovered many new sources of inspiration, so I have a lot of ideas running around in my head and looking for a place to go. I want to see what comes of recording them together.

This is my record; these are my songs. I broadcast them from my perch in the California canopy, as I take stock of the materials I have been gathering for my nest. I invite you to listen and, as you feel inspired, to add a verse or a countermelody of your own.

a grotesquely serendipitous combination

As seen in my Google Reader this morning: 

(click to enlarge... or don't)

Some things just need to be shared.

avian drifters

[natural bridges state beach, santa cruz, california]

That's right, it's Skywatch Friday again (where did the week go?)! Check out the views here.

skywatch friday, week 17

[22nd st at indiana, san francisco]

Thanksgiving day:
silhouetted stubby claw trees (not their scientific name)
reaching toward wintry grey clouds over the city.

See more at Skywatch!

skywatch friday, week 15

[judah & 22nd ave, san francisco]

sunset in the sunset district
with muni lines overhead

happy skywatching

what do you listen to at work?

I work in a charming historic house situated between two student residences. 

About an hour ago I started hearing the sweet sounds of the marching band coming from somewhere outside and very nearby. 

I assumed that they were making their way down Campus Drive, just on the other side of the house next door. It is the week of the Big Game, after all.

Ran outside with my coworkers to see them and, turns out, they are practicing ON THE ROOF OF THE FRAT HOUSE next door.

How fabulous is that?

They're still playing. And making me feel all cheerful and nostalgic.

I love this place.

skywatch friday, week 14

[caltrain station, 4th & king, san francisco]

visit skywatch to see more views of the sky
from hundreds of places on this planet

some thoughts for the next (first) day

November 5, 2008: yesterday was a pretty important day here in the United States of America. Today is a brand new day; today I, along with millions of fellow citizens, residents, visitors, as well as onlookers in other countries, rejoice in the naming of the new President-Elect, Barack Obama. This is the start of a period of healing and renewal and progress. Watching Obama's speech last night, I had to keep reminding myself that it was real, that it wasn't just a fairy tale playing on the screen.

The result of the presidential election, however comforting and awe-inspiring, did not come as a surprise to me. What does surprise me is the result of the vote on California Proposition 8. I really did not expect it to pass. I noticed the extra push by the No on Prop 8 campaigners in the last few days leading up to the election, but I couldn't imagine that their efforts were anything more than a security buffer.

You may remember that I had a hard time with Proposition 8 when I first moved to California in August. Well, I still do. Either way I look at it, it makes me upset. I don't fully understand it, and I cannot tell what will happen in the future as regards this issue. Ultimately, my vote on Prop 8 came down to a matter of trust in the prophet and apostles of the Church, trust that they are blessed with greater foresight than I, trust that they know what they are doing, trust that they would not endorse a particular position on a particular political issue if it were not very important for some reason(s) that I do not yet understand.

Am I happy that Prop 8 passed? No, decidedly not. Would I be happy if Prop 8 had not passed? I'm not sure. Maybe, at least in the short term. The good that I see coming from the passage of Prop 8 is that it will not last. I know it won't. Too many people are upset and hurt (and can you blame them?) and they will not sit back and say 'oh well, we tried.' We will be called to vote again, we will be called to act, we will be called to enact a change that is really functional. I don't yet know what it will be, but I believe that after several incarnations of prop 8's and counter-prop 8's, we may eventually hit upon something that everyone can agree on. Call me a foolish idealist if you will. All I know is that it's not working now. But that doesn't mean that we should give up hope. Hasn't the Obama campaign taught us anything, after all?


What follows is a text that I originally wrote in an email to a friend, since we had earlier begun a conversation on the topic. When I came to the end (which is far from an end to the discussion), I realized and commented that perhaps it was a little silly to be writing this in an email. While my primary intent was to renew our dialogue, the primary effect was that, even before receiving a response and yet ignorant of whether my friend would even read what I had written, I felt better (if ever so slightly) just having gotten my thoughts out on paper, so to speak. Writing is mostly narcissistic. But every once in a while it transcends. And our stubborn hope in that once-in-a-while, I suppose, is what propels us humans to continue sharing our writing, somehow or another.

To be sure, I do not feel "vindicated" or even, more mildly, "justified" by the outcome of the prop 8 vote, nor do I feel any sense of relief. I do stand by my decision to follow my church leaders' counsel in voting on the issue, but I never did feel comfortable asking others to vote as I would (and therefore I did not). To be honest, the whole issue makes me feel sick, literally sick to my stomach. Part of me wants to run away from it, but mostly that tells me that it is important and must be dealt with somehow.

Regardless of which way the vote went, the very fact that it was so close tells me that this is not a simple black-or-white issue. Though others who voted "yes" may rejoice that we "won," I know that's simply foolish. I know very well that this is not the last we will hear of it, nor is it the last time it will come up on a ballot. Besides, the way I see it, democracy ought not to be about winning or losing. Something's wrong if we're fighting. If an issue is so starkly divided, that to me means that neither side is wholly right. There must be some other resolution that will make everybody better off.

Frankly, I think that we are in need of major reforms, more revolutionary perhaps than legalizing same-sex marriages. Under the law, take away the right to marry from everyone. Let any two people establish a civil union and enjoy the legal (and equal) rights that come along with that, and leave marriage entirely up to the churches. It's a semantic issue, perhaps, a matter of names. But what's in a name? For me (the phrase "the Word was God" comes to mind, not to mention my linguistic/literary background), words, names, are very important and far from empty; it seems, too, that I am not alone: a lot of the emotion surrounding the prop 8 issue, I believe, stems from the meaning(s) we attribute to the word "marriage" itself.

This is just the beginning. I do not know what will happen next, but we will continue to live in the struggle.


La vida es lucha, y la solidaridad para la vida es lucha y se hace en la lucha. No me cansaré de repetir que lo que más nos une a los hombres unos con otros son nuestras discordias. Y lo que más le une a cada uno consigo mismo, lo que hace la unidad íntima de nuestra vida, son nuestras discordias íntimas, las contradicciones interiores de nuestras discordias.

Miguel de Unamuno, La agonía del cristianismo

etxerantz has a new sibling

That's right, I am the proud new parent of a bouncing baby blog!

Join me on a photographic exploration of my new neighborhood, day by day at Palo Alto Daily Photo.

Inspired by, and pending acceptance into, the City Daily Photo blog network.

skywatch friday, week 12

the rainy season is upon us.



[palo alto caltrain station]

peoplemovers

I have long nurtured a fascination with mass transit systems. I can't quite say why, nor can I pinpoint when it started, but I think I first became conscious of it while studying abroad in Alcalá de Henares, a suburb of Madrid.

A "suburb" in Spanish is called a cercanía, and Cercanías is what they call the regional rail networks in Spain. The Cercanías trains are what we would take from Alcalá to get into Madrid. It was four years ago, but if I stop to think about it, I can still hear the voice that announces the stops in that beautiful Castilian Spanish, theta and all: Próxima parada: Torrejón de Ardoz.

My love for the Madrid Metro was instantaneous. One of the oldest Metro systems in the world (first opened in 1919), it's sleek, efficient and enormous. My explorer buddy and I had many an adventure navigating the capital city via its underground labyrinth of Atochas and Sols and Nuevos Ministerios. Years later, while Julie was again living in Spain, she sent me the link to Red Retro: a sort of underground (pun intended) guerrilla art project involving altering the names of Metro stations. A delightful endeavor, if you ask me.

When we arrived in Barcelona at the end of our 2004 stay in Spain, we realized just how accustomed we had become to the Madrid Metro: we experienced some embarrassing difficulty entering the Barcelona Metro, since the turnstyles, in relation to where you inserted your ticket, were oriented opposite the way they had been in Madrid. The Barcelona Metro has a different flavor: it's smaller than Madrid's, and everything is in three languages. The Catalan influence means that "RENFE" (originally an acronym for the Spanish National Rail Network) is pronounced with a schwa at the end (which is a shocking phenomenon when you have been hearing only Spanish for the last three months), and that Metro stations have names like Paral•lel. Yes, that's really how it's spelled.

I take a certain pride in having experienced several mass transit systems around the world, from the smooth and sometimes architecturally grandiose Washington DC Metro of my homeland, the somewhat chaotic New York City Subway, the aging T of Boston, the endearing UTA buses in my last area and the promising TRAX light rail in Salt Lake City, Chicago's El trains and Metra commuter rail (which we like to think of as a female Metro), to the reeling speed-racing buses in Mérida and the extremely inexpensive but also very scary "buses" (really just rickety vans crammed with a couple dozen people) in Cusco.

Earlier this year, while I was trying to figure out where I would move to, my research included scoping out the transportation options in a number of potential cities. Underground rail got lots of bonus points, while lightrail and commuter rail were pluses, and buses, well, buses are better than nothing. Somewhere along the line, I came across this website highlighting artistic and architecturally interesting Metro systems around the world. Yes, that is the kind of thing that catches my eye. That said, it shouldn't surprise you that, the first time I visited the Stanford library, I discovered this marvelous book and spent a good couple of hours devouring it.

Ultimately, my decision as to where to relocate was not based solely on the modes of transportation available, though the options in the bay area did make the transition to a newfound independence a little easier and more enjoyable (like I said, I really like underground trains). Imagine my joy when, having just arrived from a stronghold of suburban America where I was one of the few supporters of the little bus system that could, I suddenly found at my doorstep: the BART! the Muni! the Caltrain! Not to mention the VTA light rail that runs from Mountain View to San José, which I haven't tried yet, but I look forward to it!


[bart train in richmond]

[muni n-judah at church & duboce in san francisco]

[caltrain in palo alto]

When I lived in Provo, I came to love the sound of the freight train whistle that always reached me in the middle of the night. Here in Palo Alto, I find the sound of the Caltrain whistle comforting. While I lived in San Francisco, I fell asleep listening to the soothing electric whirr of the Muni light rail which stopped half a block away.

Every day I take the Marguerite shuttle to work. Every Sunday I take the Caltrain and the Muni to church. I don't even own a car. That's mostly for financial reasons, but also I'm blessed to live in an area where it's not really necessary. My home address scores a 92 out of 100 on the Walkscore scale - that's a walker's paradise! And I must say it is a lovely neighborhood to walk in. It's nice to be able to run errands on foot, and I feel good about keeping my carbon footprint from becoming unnecessarily enormous. Even though my family isn't fanatically "green," we have been recycling since I was in kindergarten, and after all, I did grow up in Maryland public schools. We had regular programs entreating us to save the bay. In recent years my eco-consciousness has become more prominent, partly in answer to the volume of voices speaking up about global warming, partly because it fits in naturally with my fairly simple lifestyle anyway, partly because I've gained a greater sense of responsibility in all aspects of my life, partly because it's sort of stylish, partly because I moved to California and it's easy to do things like buy organic and local produce and to power your home entirely on renewable wind and solar energy.

We live in a nation where many people are used to getting in a car and driving wherever they need to go. If you're one of them, next time you're heading out, I encourage you to try an alternative to driving. Go catch the bus instead; descend into the belly of the earth and discover the experience of slipping through dark tunnels on a high-speed train; hop on the commuter train or the light rail, if your city is blessed with such options. You'll ease the stress on your wallet, on the roads, and on the atmosphere. And who knows, you might just meet someone wonderful who happens to sit next to you on the train.