Later, while crossing the street, I ran into an old friend who I hadn't seen in at least five years. We made futile plans to reconnect later that evening, and I headed over to a big, huge, ginormous party at the DeYoung Museum in Golden Gate Park, hosted by the San Francisco Bay Guardian.

A happy little indie/pop/world-beat/folksy/punk band with a smokin' hot chick singer in Andes-boheme garb played to an ecstatic--but in a wholly sophisticated, fuck-you-if-you-make-me-spill-my-drink kind of way--audience. It was an immense crowd. I'd guess they numbered around 638-or-so billion.

And the people were freakishly beautiful (and by that I mean they were freaks) and intimidating as all hell. You could tell they were all doing something too cool and intellectual and good for humanity than I could ever imagine. I was in love. I was repulsed. I had the distinct feeling that yep, this is exactly what I asked for--these are my people and I should let them know at once that I have finally arrived!

And I felt more lonely than ever.

My first couple days back in the city, I ran around sorta aimlessly visiting old haunts and trying to rediscover what I thought was cool about San Francisco. I walked around my old hood in upper Haight, perusing the musty yet uber-trendy thrift stores--er, excuse me, vintage boutiques--and trying to find a seat at any of my once favorite affably accessible/now-hipster-exclusive coffee shops, greasy spoons and dive bars.

Not really feeling the love there, I walked on down to lower Haight, knowing that its familiar lowdown and dirty ambience would take a layer of pretense off the urban attitude being splashed upon me as if by a bus through an overflowing sewer.

But bar after dismal bar further dampened my spirit and not my tongue, as bartender after dismal fucking bartender chose to ignore me in lieu of their own cocktail, scowling as I smiled a polite howdoyoudo.

Hunched over and head bent down, I kicked open the half-door to my old pal the Noc Noc, grunted an order for a beer and sat at one of their weird artsy stools that were awkwardly nailed down a little too close together.

The three other people at the bar--obviously professional rockstars--talked music business with the bartender.

"I'd rather be a bad band with a good name than a good band with a bad name," said one dude. "Well... in this town anyway."

I woke up rather early that first day in the city--too early for Sash--and lay in bed listening to the sounds of the street: The "5" rolling by on McAllister, jackhammers at the construction site on Steiner, someone periodically yelling to someone else across the street...

When she finally got up, Sash and I took Philly for a walk through Alamo Square Park. At the top of the hill, I could see the "Painted Ladies" and a skyline of white and gray and steel blue buildings reaching up towards the clouds in points and staffs. I admired the ornate details of the Victorian houses around the Square, and recalled with detached fondness the faux fireplace mantel and high-ceiling trim of Sasha's room.




After she left for work, I finished my coffee in the living room and discovered a "Not for Tourists" guidebook for San Francisco. Although I did, in fact, live in the city a mere 10 years ago, it took me about an hour and six maps to figure out how to get to my soon-to-be new 'hood in the Inner Sunset district.

At the bus stop, I chatted it up with an older man in a cap who had an accent I couldn't quite place. He told me how much the fare would be, and that the "24" is slow. I thanked him and went inside the corner liquor store to buy a lottery ticket.

On Haight Street, I saw a tattooed dude skateboarding next to his toddler son, who was clutching a newspaper.

I sort of drifted in and out of consciousness on the plane. When it landed, I could barely see the runway, the fog was so thick.

Of course, I'm speaking about the fog of shock that will stay with me for the better part of a month... But yeah, there also happened to be some fog in the Bay, too.

My bags were the first off the carousel at the claim terminal, which was fortunate because I was like a wide-eyed, caffeine-crazed, Vicodin-addled country mouse zombie in the city. My heart was racing. A tingly kind of numbness began branching out throughout my body. The air was crisp, the night sky seemed darker than usual, and the wind bit my cheeks the second I stepped outside.

As I waited for my ride, I studied intently the people around me. My new people. There were lots of Hispanics. Yeah! Lots of black folk. Alright! And lots of skinny white chicks in too much makeup and skinny jeans. I sighed.

Elan and Sasha rolled up in Montclair (Sasha's beloved black Ford Explorer she shipped over from Maui), and Elan immediately presented me with a welcome bag to Oakland: a 40-ounce of malt liquor and a blunt.

It was as if no time had elapsed since we were all on Maui together, as Sasha and Elan began arguing about which bar they should take me to first. While they bickered about directions, I marveled at the pretty lights on the tall buildings crowding the dirty streets with too many nameless people. My new hometown.

After much debate, we ended up at a joint called Radio--a small, hip dive in downtown Oakland. I took note of the attractive male bartender, dark ambience, Makers Mark at the ready, and virtually nobody in attendance. I thought it was perfect. But the kids weren't satisfied. They decided we should head to Radio's sister bar a block or something away, called the Ruby Room--this time with uber-hot chicks tending bar, an even darker (darker than the night, if that's possible) ambience... and the place was packed. And loud.

Elan began drinking Rockstar and vodkas, and boasting, sort of, about his recent raise at the medicinal marijuana center he runs. Although I was having fun people watching and scoping shoes and hip hairstyles, Sasha and I were getting tired, Elan was getting louder and not so receptive about buying our drinks, and after all, there were many more evenings to spend together now, so we decided to call it a night. After we dropped our dear friend off, Sash and I headed to her awesome and humongous Victorian pad by Alamo Square, where we hung out in the kitchen with her bartender roommate Justin, who made us Manhattans on the fly, and Sasha cooked me a mean grilled cheese and avo sandwich. By the time another roommate ambled out to the kitchen, I could barely keep my eyes open so I shuffled off to the bedroom and crashed, wondering if I would think it was all just a dream when I woke up.

I say goodbye to everyone at the office. Jen drops me off at the airport, where I briefly get harrassed somewhat by the curbside porter about leaving Maui. Clutching my boarding pass, I ditch my well-worn slippahs and don the "destiny" heels, making my slightly weepy albeit excited trek to the plane headed for San Francisco.

Okay, this is it. Deep breath...

I had a window seat next to a young girl of about 14 and her mom. As we waited to take off, I kept my shades on and bit my lip--my heart was pounding so fast and heavy, and the lump in my throat was threatening to explode out of my eye sockets at any moment. The two dudes behind me were yakking it up about their reasons for departure; one was a born-and-bred Maui boy heading to college, the other was a Bay Area businessman finishing one of his regular Hawaiian Islands sojourns to visit friends. And although it was still a balmy 80-something degrees outside, I unfurled the airline-sanctioned blanket over me, leaned my head against the tiny plexiglass window and shut my eyes.

Flight attendants, please prepare for departure...

Of course, my whole life on Maui flashed before my eyes. I tried to quiet my mind, tried to concentrate on my breathing and, crazy as it may make me sound (I'm sure you're quite used to that by now), tried to give myself the kind of pep talk I would give to a friend in a similar situation. This is great what you're doing. Change is always good. I'm so proud of you for wanting to better your life, to grow. Think of all the fun you'll have. And the adventures! But all I could think about was the perpetual moment before last, played out in my mind like the scenes in Memento--backwards, with every precursory scene illuminating the one played out before it, even though the events happened in opposite order.

I thought about how I laid in bed the night before at the Russo house, my mind racing, unable to sleep, listening to the sounds of the violent Paukukalo waves crashing closeby. When the sun rose, cracking the darkness open like an egg, I heard Jen milling about in the kitchen, and little Betty beginning to cry. Jen tapped lightly on my door to see if I was serious about taking a morning swim at Baby Beach in Sprecklesville.

I was.

It was a particularly windy morning, and the skies had been somewhat gray all week long, which made this last chance to get in Maui's warm waters that much more final and depressing. Jen and I shivered next to each other in our sarongs, staring out at the choppy surface of the sea, while her rambunctious toy poodles Mojo and Chewy ran amuk and tried to start trouble with the larger dogs at the beach.

She got in first, tentative at waist high. I bum-rushed the water, yelling like a half-crazed ninja, until I was fully submersed--quieted, at last. And it always happens like that: once engulfed in the liquid womb of the ocean, my body makes peace with my mind. I floated around for awhile, looking out towards the horizon and up at the sky, over at the wide expanse of cream-colored sand, trying to lock into my memory the way the bottom felt, its silky silt oozing up between my toes, and the soothing warmth of the water and how it made me feel safe, and energized, and clearheaded, and like I wanted to cry.

And that's what I was thinking about as the plane started to take off. So I did cry. And then when I started to cry, I couldn't stop. And Sprecklesville, then Paia and Hookipa glided below me, shrinking in size, until I was straining my neck to see the cliffs of Huelo, and the seemingly endless greens and blues of the island where I'd spent the last 10 years of my life. The most important 10 years, some might say. Don't be so fucking dramatic, I said to myself.

And the numbness set in. My tears continued to form thick, warm tributaries of wetness on my face, the lump in my throat made like a dam for the butterflies in my stomach to knock against. My heart felt like a lead balloon and my head started to detach itself from my body. I still don't know where it is, really.

I leaned back and let Shrek the Third take over.