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.