And so it is that I missed the 8:15 bus to work this morning, and am sitting in Peet’s Coffee on Van Ness writing this and waiting for 9:15 to roll around.

Such an introduction has undoubtedly prefaced many a whine on the state of MUNI (SF’s Public Transport system), but having endured 8 years of hilarious systems failures, self-serving drivers’ strikes and sweaty, “sardine can” conditions on the London Underground, I really can’t complain. In using the MUNI trams for six weeks now, I’ve never suffered a delay, smelled another human being’s armpits or had cause to make an inpromptu Voodoo likeness of MUNI staff. That’s partly luck, I know – MUNI is renowned for its idiosyncracies, and I’m sure that one day in the future I’ll look back at this very paragraph and laugh.

And to be fair, over the 8 years I was in London the tube did improve immeasurably. Newly-arrived Londoners can mull that one over next time their train breaks down in a tunnel.

Aaaanyway, as usual, I digress.

The cause of my delay this morning was indirectly due to the wonderful folks of San Francisco’s water Department. They’ve been messing around outside my house for the best part of a month (a yearly ritual, I’m told) doing God Knows What under the roadway. I don’t mind that they have to fix the pipes – it’s a big hill in a rainy, seismically-active city. Shit happens, and I’d rather that it didn’t “happen” to flow out of a broken pipe right where my car’s parked.

But whoever spent three weeks digging around under there earlier this month obviously didn’t finish what they started. And so I came out of my house this morning to find a brand new sign dumped in front of my car, warning of a “No stopping, Tow Away” zone being back in force. From today. The same “today” that they put the sign out.

Crap.

I have my morning-commute routine now. A quick walk to Church Street MUNI, one stop on the K/L/M tram to Van Ness, and a couple of blocks’ walk to my bus stop. This plan doesn’t factor in ten minutes to move my car because some bastard set up a parking restriction with precisely zero warning.

Luckily, my neighbourhood is actually parking-rich, so it didn’t take long to move the car around the corner. But it took just long enough. I finally got downtown… just in time to see the bus pull away.

Still, I guess it gave me time for a coffee and a muffin and a quick whinge into my text-editor for later 360-posting, so it’s not all bad.

It also reminded me of the difference between Public Services in cities, versus those in towns. I may be over-sensitive or paranoid, but this morning’s fun little incident smacked of a certain hostility towards the folks of my neighbourhood. Why no warning? What the hell would have happened if they’d done this whilst I was away for a week?

If not an actively hostile act, then at the very least it exposed the general problem with city services. Cities get used more than towns. There are more people per square mile, more cars, more trucks, more wear-and-tear. There’s often less money-per-head (more poverty/homelessness), and much, much more to fix. So people get overworked, careless, lazy. And they forget to put out the parking restriction warnings until the day they start.

I wish I were a municipal planning genius and could provide an instant solution to this problem. Unfortunately, planning genius I ain’t. But I will keep thinking about it, particularly if I end up missing the bus again due to early-morning parking surprises…

It’s easy to drift into the background, to disconnect yourself from the situations and people and places and words and momentary ecstacies which set your heart on fire.

And it’s funny how quickly you forget; how quickly the perfect, joyful pain of real life becomes unfamiliar.

But if you’re truly a child of the city; if you’ve ever tied the rhythms of your heart to it; bled with it and healed with it and trudged through it and skipped across it, it never leaves you.

Living amongst it again, the tangle of experiences and emotions pulls you back in, so tightly weaved that sometimes all you know is that this is experience, good mixed with bad and perfect mixed with stomach-wrenching, the edges blurred beyond comprehension.

And it floods back in, an old neglected friend, filling you with the indefinable sense of being wonderfully alive. And you know that, whether your alloted days are many or few, there will always be more to take by the horns and laugh and cry and sing and dream about.

And this is life. Live it, with all its ups and downs and ins and outs; the “yes” and the “no” and sometimes the “maybe”. Because the only alternative is to lie down in your grave again and die slowly over a period of decades.

It’s been a long, slow, fast, weird psychological/emotional rollercoaster of a week, and I’m sleep-deprived and maybe slightly drunk and definitely confused. And it sure as hell isn’t over yet.

But I’m surely alive, every heartbeat measured carefully and savoured; every sigh heard as loud as a heartfelt scream and every smile as dazzling as the unfiltered sunlight.

And still I love it.

And I always will.

(…being the sound of my social life exploding.)

I really, really hoped that moving up to San Francisco would provide me with less nights in watching DVDs, and more nights out doing random things. And whadya know? The city answered my hopes and then some.

The thing is, San Francisco, despite being far from central to it, really is the Bay Area’s hub. Just by being here you find yourself in the right place at the right time more often than not.

Which means that in the past three weeks or so I have found myself, usually by random:

• Attending a “Valentine’s Night” party which was like a cross between speed-dating, orienteering and alcoholism (er, you probably had to be there).
• At a musicians’ “open mic” night in a coffee shop, followed by many drinks on Haight Street.
• Having lovely dinners/lunches/breakfasts with people I’ve not seen in far too long.
• At a freaky burning-man-related Oakland warehouse party, complete with violin-playing rock groups and giant tesla coils.
• Chilling out listening to the storms crash down and playing board games.
• On a bar-crawl of epic proportions, which ended at 4:30am after two back-to-back house-parties.
• Walking the world’s most ridiculously cute dog in the park.
• Wearing an enormous orange feather boa at an Oscar Night party (commercials replaced by an excellent live band) in an SF warehouse.

And this coming weekend? Hoo boy. Apparently I’ve agreed to…

• Thursday: A music awards after-party.
• Friday: A birthday party.
• Saturday: A “Las Vegas” themed party (not even sure what that’s in aid of).
• Sunday: A pre-SXSW dinner meet-up, followed by seeing The Spinto Band play Du Nord.

…all of which gives me precisely “Monday” to recover, before flying out to Austin TX for 5 full days of SXSW.

God. Damn.

Does anyone have any useful alternatives for sleep which provide the restfulness, without the 8 hours of unconsciousness?

But pretty soon reality catches up with you, and no matter how sweet your sweetheart you realise there are a few quirks of theirs that you just never expected.

It may be their unwavering use of anchovies as a desert topping, an unfortunate Chinese tattoo which isn’t as deep and meaningful as they hoped, or their tendency to scream the name “Jeremiah Entwhistle” when excited (particularly confusing during major sporting events)… But whatever it is, eventually it reveals itself.

And love comes in many forms. Whether it’s the love of your tax accountant’s encyclopedic knowledge of loopholes, your deep fondness for a good whisky, the love of a good woman, or adoration of your lovely new apartment.

All these things are well and good, as long as you remember that the accountant may land you with an IRS audit, the whisky may lead you to curse your very existence curled up in the bathroom at 3am, and the good woman will probably yell “Jeramiah Entwhistle!” at inopportune moments. And as for the apartment, well…
It was somewhat unfortunate that I moved in on the coldest week that San Francisco has seen all year. When I’d viewed the apartment it was the perfect temperature inside (and, indeed, it is right now because it’s a gorgeous day outside), but for the first week here… man, was it cold in the mornings.

There’s no central heating in the apartment, just a big (and to be fair, pretty efficient) gas-fired radiator in the lounge. It wasn’t enough to stop the bedroom getting cold, though (particularly as the apartment is tucked up in the roof of the house without much insulation.) So I bought a couple of electric heaters – both to distribute the heat, and save on gas bills.

Perfect. So I had one electric radiator going full-tilt in the lounge, and unpacked a second heater in the bedroom. I plugged it in, and everything was perfect – warming up nicely. I’d noticed that the lights flickered a bit when I switched them on, but didn’t pay much attention.

And then I heard the click-whirr of the fridge kicking in back in the kitchen… 2 seconds later, I was plunged into darkness.

Turns out that this place only has one electrical circuit on a single circuit breaker, and… well, the capacity isn’t that high.

Cue a week of carefully playing with heater settings in order to keep a delicate balance of warmth and light. I must have nipped outside to reset the breaker 5 or 6 times since I moved in…

…All of which could add up to being very annoying. Except, somehow it’s not. It’s even, dare I say it, fun – a battle between the cold, the weird electrics and my wits (yeah yeah, my wits definitely lose). And I’m so very, very happy with the place that I can entirely forgive its freaky electrics.

Which is, perhaps, the fundamental point about love – it’s not about perfection.

It’s about passion. It’s about that gut feeling of “yes”, even in the middle of a definite “no” moment. It’s about being plunged suprisingly into the dark (or hearing the scream of “Jeremiah Entwhistle!” again) and realising that no, this isn’t a quirk or a flaw – it’s just another part of the someone, something or somewhere that you adore.

The fact that the preceding sentence requires the plural of “friend”, and that I’m now living in the same zipcode as most of the Castro district suggests that Fate is trying to tell me something. Unfortunately, my sexual orientation stopped returning Fate’s calls and took out a restraining order against her long ago, so her efforts are all in vain, and I remain very much in the dark about the mysteries and appeal of gay porn.

But I digress.

To cut a short story shorter, I am never, ever moving house the “DIY” way ever again. Because, frankly, the stress and expense of hiring a van ($19.95 for a U-Haul? Great… plus the extras and the extra extras), topped off by an entire day awkwardly maneuvering your worldly possessions from one place to another (and roping in friends who never quite forgive you)… well, it’s not worth it.

Not when professionals will come and do it in four hours flat, and give you change out of $300…

…which is why I come to be reflecting on the appeal of burly men carrying things. References to gay porn very much aside, there is something amazing about watching true professionals work, and (whilst I’m not sure whether they’ll appreciate the slightly unconventional nature of the review), Michael and his crew at TI Moving were simply brilliant. I can’t praise or recommend them highly enough. If you need to move in the Bay Area, give ‘em a call.

As soon as I let them into my old apartment, the place started to empty as though someone had attached a magic vacuum-cleaner to the doorway. They were so efficient that I couldn’t keep track of what had been moved, even though I was standing right there. I will never know, to my dying day, who actually took the mattress from the bedroom, or how they managed to do it so stealthily.

And at the other end of the journey, despite the fact that I now live on a particularly unforgiving hill, they had everything out of the van and inside the new place in under an hour.

It really couldn’t have been more painless, and after a week of re-building beds, setting up shelves and emptying boxes, I’m completely settled in my new place. The broadband was installed today, so now I even have internet. Yay!

This means that I can finally bore you with pictures of the new place. Don’t all yawn at once.

Sunlight was falling through the little conservatory at the back of the house and the wooden floor of the enormous lounge just glowed with it. We all looked at each other, mentally calculating whether we could afford the rent. “One way or another, we will” was the conclusion.

And when we moved in a few weeks later the place was even nicer than I remembered from that first viewing. From the very first day, it was more than just a place to live. It was home.

I’ll always have very fond memories of that house and the good friends that I shared it with. Moving out was one of the hardest things about coming to California.

My apartment in Sunnyvale didn’t have that feeling of “home”, quite. It was “nice”. It was functional. It was the place where I set myself on my feet and set out to live life on the West Coast. But it’s not somewhere I can feel a deep love for.

So I immediately had a good feeling when I went to view my new San Francisco apartment a few weeks ago. When I first walked in, taking in the quirky sloping ceilings and curved walls, the adorable rustic-style cabinets in the dining room and the deck with the view all the way out to the Bay, I felt that same “wow!” gut reaction that we all had back in London more than 4 years ago.

And when I picked up the keys on Saturday and saw the place again – really mine now – I fell completely in love with it. I knew that I’d found somewhere new to really call home.

I actually arrived a little early to meet the landlady. With time to spare, I wandered down the hills in search of lunch. There’s a wonderful quirky little deli/store called Courtney Produce at the corner of 14th and Castro which I’ve seen before but never been into. They make their own sandwiches and squeeze their own juice in various surprising combinations. They also appear to have some Good Cheese. Yay!

I picked up a tofu-and-mustard sandwich and an orange juice, and wandered down to the little park on the western end of Duboce. Sitting there in the February sun eating the lunch I just bought from a neighbourhood store embodied many of the reasons that I wanted to move up to the city. It was perfectly timed in every way – when I took the keys afterwards I just stood there with a silly, happy grin on my face.

The rest of the weekend was a whirlwind – Saturday afternoon saw me walking round most of Northbeach and Chinatown on the Chinese New Year Treasure Hunt, before heading back to Sunnyvale and packing the rest of my stuff.

The movers came Sunday night, and by 10pm I was installed amidst a mass of disassembled furniture and cardboard boxes, disorganised but still the most “home” I’ve ever been in California.

(And yes, before anyone bugs me, photos of the new place will appear somewhere soon – probably next week – once it’s a little more settled and a little less piled high with cartons of books…)

I was originally planning on picking up the keys on the 11th, and moving my stuff a week later on the 18th – more breathing room, chance to smooth out problems etc. But oh no.

Luckily I started packing before Christmas, putting books and other things I could live without for a while into boxes. But now it’s crunch time, and I’m realising that this time last year I didn’t have a desk or a bed or a TV or kitchen appliances, or half the cookware I’ve managed to aquire, or a bike… the list goes on.

It’s a long time since I had to move – London to Sunnyvale didn’t count somehow, because a Relo company came and swept everything into boxes with breathtaking efficiency, delivering it with equal efficiency a few days after I got this apartment.

So I’m only just now remembering how sneaky “stuff” is.

I swear that, whenever you move house, your belongings conspire to double in volume for the duration of the move.

I think everything’s slowly coming under control. I have no idea how I’m going to sensibly move my clothes, and I still have to carefully pack all my glassware and mugs (which will be tedious), but apart from that everything’s more-or-less neatly boxed-up and ready to go.

Nevertheless, the next few days are going to be stressful, and I really cannot wait until my vast mountains of stuff are in the new apartment, and I can unpack everything so that it magically shrinks again.

Roll on Sunday…

Hurrah!

London provided ample opportunities to power through the Meat List of the previous post, and although oysters are out of season and I didn’t get around to Peking Duck or manage to get to Nando’s, I’m now into my first day of experimental vegetarianism.

All the leftover meaty cupboard staples have been disposed of via my stomach, so from hereon in I won’t be buying any meat… unless an unbearable desire for steak forces me to concede that, no, I really can’t be without the odd choice bit of animal in my diet. We’ll see how that goes.

In other news, I looked at a lovely apartment which was just vacated by 2 fellow Yahoos today. It’s slightly larger than my current place, in the absolute perfect location (Buena Vista – N Judah to downtown, Haight 10-15 mins away…), has a really nice outside deck area and is, in short, exactly what I want. It’s expensive (60% more than I currently pay), but that’s what you get for wanting to be in the city.

I’m going to sleep on it overnight, but assuming that my subconscious doesn’t throw up any weird nightmares it looks like I’ll be tackling the Rental Application Hurdles from tomorrow onwards.

Wish me luck…

Perhaps the biggest problem to solve – how to get hold of provisions.

Now, if I live in the city (and have more disposable income that isn’t tied up in car costs) then I’ll probably eat out more – I’ll have a vast array of restaurants at my disposal, and money to spend in them. But I really like cooking, and I want to be able to actually live in my apartment, not just use it as a place to store my stuff and occasionally sleep.

Without a car, the option of going to a place like Trader Joe’s once a week and stocking up on everything is out of the window. I have to assume that I can only ever buy what I can reasonably carry home on foot, public transport or the bike (see previous posts on sustainability and cycling…)

So I’m pretty interested in the idea of Planet Organics, who can arrange a weekly delivery of fresh fruits, vegetables etc. right to your apartment. They even have an insured service where you provide them with a key and their delivery driver drops the goods off inside your flat. I love the idea of coming home once a week to a box of fresh goodies waiting on the kitchen counter.

So that would quite simply take care of enough basic ingredients to make interesting meals. And with the basics taken care of, it’ll be easier to pop to a store on foot occasionally to stock up on flour, rice, milk and whatever else I might need.

Drinks are perhaps more of a problem, cos they’re heavy. Sure, the odd six-pack from an off-licence is easy to carry home, but what about my beloved European beers? No more stocking up by the case-load at Bevmo… Although they do deliver from their website, so maybe an occasional order of my favourites will be manageable if I can fit it in with working from home…

I am intrigued by one last option, though, which Reinhard mentioned in a comment when I first mentioned ditching the car. City Carshare is a membership scheme where, for $10 per month, $4 per hour and 44¢ per mile you can pick up a car at any of their city-wide locations, use it for something like, say, a shopping run, and then return it to the place you found it.

It’s appealing because the membership cost is so low, and the concept is perfect, provided you live within reasonable distance of a carshare location.

So a combination of these solutions should serve me well, and save me money. All of a sudden, I feel better about selling the car again.

The map is important because, after a year of getting to know SF from afar I now have a very good idea of where I would really like to live, and more importantly where I really really wouldn’t like to live.
Anyway, there are several reasons I’m doing this:

1. It makes it feel like I’m actively doing something about moving
2. It keeps me in touch with the rental market – prices and available places
3. I can grab the details of agencies who seem to regularly have decent properties

Of course, none of this is completely reliable since adverts can lie. But at least you get a feel for how the land lies, especially with ads that feature pictures (the “lie factor” seems to be lower.)

But there’s a risk in scanning craigslist before you’re actually ready to move, and the risk is that you spot a place which wouldbe perfect.

It happened to me this week. $1250/month, low deposit, newly refurbished 1-bed place on Delmar and Frederick, right in the Haight. It’s my ideal location – close to various friends, close to Haight Street (fantastic bars and restaurants at one end, the general “Amoeba Records” Haightiness at the other, close to Muni lines, Golden Gate Park… blah blah blah.

The pictures may well have been artfully shot to make the most of the space, but it was undoubtedly cute, with wooden floors and a good kitchen (you can tell a lot about a place from the attention lavished on the kitchen.)

I almost broke and phoned the agent for a viewing, but, you see, I have a plan. And it’s a good plan. It places me at the right time (in terms of lease-ending hassle, post-Christmas destress) and the right position to move. Changing places now would be expensive and highly stressful. So I had to let it drift past, willing myself not to keep checking the ad to see if it had been taken.

It was there for three days in the end before being deleted, and I’m at once sad and glad that it’s gone.

But there’s an upside to all this. In less than a month of scanning rental listings, I’ve seen one place which would be perfect (and 5 or 6 others which have been interesting). So there are affordable, nice, well-located options out there on the market.

And I’m pretty sure now that I’ll be able to find somewhere worth living when the time comes. I’m going to curse myself, of course, if that’s not the case, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.