adrian is rad


10 years on…

Filed under: — adrian @ 2:09 pm

August 19, 1999. People celebrate anniversaries of graduations, but that date changed my life far more than the graduation three months before. It was the day I left for college.

My mom had taken me to the airport and my friend Mike met me at the gate—remember when you could still go to the gate to see someone off? I’m still not sure why but in those days Mike loved going to the airport so I told him when my flight was thinking he might come. He did. (Thanks, Mike.) As the gate attendant took my boarding pass for that US Air Pittsburgh-Boston and I looked back at Mom and Mike, I didn’t cry; my eyes didn’t well up. I didn’t know how to cry in those days. It was another six months before I learned again.

But I was frightened. I knew I wouldn’t be a big fish in a small pond anymore. I had no idea what size body of water was coming or anything else.

It wasn’t the ten years I imagined it’d be, but it’s been good. I’ve lived all over the place. I’ve had great opportunities. I’ve met lots of great people and made great friends. I’ve worked on interesting projects. I gained and lost confidence so many times I can’t remember. I’ve gone through phases and hobbies and crushes and and and…

secret weekend in san francisco

Filed under: — adrian @ 10:16 am

There was a weekend. It was secret. Well, it was not really meant to be secret, but it turned out to be. It was between moving out of my apartment in San Francisco and before boarding a plane for London and then on to Cape Town. I’d planned everything—two, three social engagements a day in addition to packing and shipping—for before I moved out so after was a quiet weekend. A secret.

A trip to the post office. I’d forgotten to mail two things the previous day. The bus #22 took me there and returned with me. Even when jam-packed, there’s something peaceful about the bus.

A lunch and beer with my roommate at a favorite set of places. Well, I guess we weren’t roommates anymore by that point, but we’d been roommates so long–longer than you’d rightfully guess—I’ll probably always refer to him as my roommate, not as some cute familiar term, but because that’s what he is: of course he’s my roommate.

Blog. Writing the last two posts for my music blog. They were hard words to write; I wanted them to be all right.

A long walk—with a portable toilet in the street!—and ice cream for dinner. It was only a couple miles, I’m sure, but it felt like we were walking for a long time. As dusk settled on the city, we walked in zig-zags across the Mission, freshly my former neighborhood, toward a ice cream place I’d meant to try, but hadn’t had a chance. Walking down 22nd St. there was something odd as we crossed Shotwell. It was a portable toilet right in the middle of the street. Drivers executing their three point turns were obviously as confused as I was as to why it was there. And shortly afterward: “What time does it close?” “9. We’d better hurry!” We did. Fudgcicle ice cream was the reward. So smooth and creamy.

Wine and a bad movie. Zoolander is either one of the dumbest funny movies or funniest dumb moves outside of Super Troopers. Splitting a bottle of South African wine, left over from my just moved out-of apartment, during it was nice, too, but nothing better than good company.

Italian mob movie with doves, robes and lots of blood. Not really. Not at all, in fact. But the stones and echoes and space and ceremonious nature of St. Ignatius always makes me think the dove/ gunfight scene of a Mafia movie is nearly upon me.

Saigon and New Orleans and California. Possibly the best $3 sandwich in San Francisco or even the US has carrots and cilantro and other delicious spices and it is from a hole in the wall Vietnamese sandwich shop in the Tenderloin. Even on a Sunday afternoon the line is out the door. Then was the issue of streetcars. I’d never ridden three of the best and there are two I still haven’t ridden: boat tram and the Zurich, but in almost a whole afternoon of riding, I did get to ride on < a href="">a streetcar named desire, which was fantastic. And if you ride all the way to Fishermen’s Wharf—let’s say this better—if you ride all the way to Fishermen’s Wharf on your last day in America, why not go to In N Out and get something. A milkshake and fries will do…

As they say, only in San Francisco. That is to say, Indian pizza. Better than I would have expected the first time and as good each additional time, my last proper meal in San Francisco was also at the place I’ve probably been more than any other, besides possibly, the taqueria.

And why do I remember just about every detail of this secret weekend? Well, for the above, and because it was the last weekend but also for some reasons I’ll keep for myself. After all, it is a secret weekend.

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