Tragic Optimism
The sound of the car slamming into bones bounced off the street. An empty skateboard rolled past me as people ran on to the road and other cars stopped with a screech.
Heading up Castro Street, I took a hard right onto Market Street and was walking uphill towards the water when I saw the skateboarder rolling fast downhill towards the intersection. I don’t want to blame the victim, but he was clearly out of control and going full speed into traffic. I mean, what the hell else did he think was going to happen?
With impeccable timing, a car approached in a perpendicular fashion, smoking the skateboarder. There was no time to warn the guy, and I don’t think it would’ve even mattered, he had made his decision. And so, on my second day away in the middle of a sunny afternoon, I watched a man go flying over the hood of a car as his skateboard made the rest of the trek downhill.
Welcome to San Francisco.
Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, but I’ve started booking flights as early as I can get them. It means takeoffs at ridiculous times like seven in the morning. Which means getting to the airport in the middle of the night. Which means trying to figure out a way to actually get to the airport in the middle of the night. Instead - and trust me, I never would have considered this before turning forty - I take the last train to the airport the night before and hang out in the airport until the gates open. It's fun, in a sadistic sort of way.
Have you ever been in an airport overnight? The first time I did this, I thought it might be exciting. I pretended that I was on the run, maybe like in an action movie or something, and I had to sneak out of the city. Bad guys were on the lookout and I had to slip by them and escape to some exotic international location. My girlfriend arrived at the exotic international location via a different route, we didn’t know if we’d make it, didn’t know when we parted ways days earlier whether we’d see each other again. But we made it. Credits rolled as we strolled along the beach.
It’s actually really boring because nobody cares that you’re there. It’s just kind of sad. Nobody really wants to be there and people are trying to sleep in all manner of uncomfortable ways. I like it because if I was ever good at something, it’s being in one place for long stretches of time. I know how to entertain myself because my stupid brain never stops working.
Whenever I go through customs, I usually have the feeling like I’m going to be invited into some side room and interrogated for several hours. I have two passports, which at times makes me feel like an actual person on the run, and figure someone is going to put an end to all this. I don’t know why as everything is above board and legitimate, I just usually feel like I don’t belong no matter where I am. Even though I very much belong. Especially in those places where I very much belong.
Since I rounded forty, I also always check my bag. I don’t want to be bothered with it, and it saves me from having to fight for space in the overhead compartment. Even though I have to wait for my luggage on the other end, and I run the very real risk of losing it along the way, I’ll double down on this risk rather than having to cart it around with me everywhere and make sure my liquids are less than the required amount.
In addition to being able to entertain myself pretty much anywhere, the other advantage I’ve got is I can sleep almost anywhere. This means getting an hour or two of sleep sitting upright in an uncomfortable airplane seat is no problem. Sure, I’ve got to work out a few kinks in my neck afterwards, but it’s worth it.
For some reason, I get very emotional when flying. I don’t know why but recently learned that this is an actual thing that happens to a lot of people. I could be watching John Wick and really get all worked up when his dog dies. I’m absolutely sure no one around me notices. I’ve read that when flying some people really feel close to their mortality, and so get all weepy-eyed. I just think it’s the air pressure.
Since San Francisco is a ridiculously expensive city, I was staying slightly outside the downtown core. I actually planned it this way because I could walk from the airport to where I would be laying my head for the next week. As you may have guessed, my flight back home was even earlier, and I wanted to be able to get to the airport on my own.
There’s something about making my own way from the airport to where I’m staying. It’s a challenge. I’m sleepy, even though I napped, and it’s the first time I’d have to navigate a new city. Even though I have a relatively terrible sense of direction, I enjoy trying to figure it out.
Generally speaking, airports aren’t built to walk in and out of. Security reasons, probably. Still, I made my way out along a road that I most likely should not have been walking along. It was basically a four-lane highway, but there was a sidewalk. At every intersection, I expected the sidewalk to end and for my journey to come to a close before it even got started. Even through construction zones, there was still an accessible walkway. A few times it was dicey. Plus it was a Sunday, so not much was happening.
I knew very little about the area that I was staying in, and I couldn’t wait until I got settled. It’s very difficult to blend in with a rolley bag. It screams tourist. It’s also loud on sidewalks and draws unwanted attention. Besides being able to walk from the airport, I picked this place to stay because I could check-in completely on my own. I didn’t need to make small talk with the host and could just get things started.
When I’m travelling, I’m constantly amazed when things work out. From the check-in at the airport to getting through customs to gaining access to where I’m staying. It always amazes me. The place where I was staying had two doors - a garage code and a code for the inside door. The first code opened the garage door. Amazing. Then the second code also worked and I was inside. I mean, come on, blows me away every time.
I’m not picky when it comes to where I stay. In fact, I like small compact places. Give me enough room to organize my things, a bed to sleep in and a desk to sit at to read and write, and I’m a damn happy fool. My room had all those fixings and more. I unpacked and headed straight out to do two things - figure out the subway system and see the ocean.
One of my favourite things to do when travelling is to ride public transit like I’ve lived there for many years. If there’s something I can’t stand, it’s having to wait in line behind someone as they confusingly get everything wrong. I was staying about a ten-minute walk from a Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) station, and when I got there, I hung back.
Watched.
Obviously, I had read up on how it works, but even though every public transit system does the same thing - gets you from here to there - they all operate just a little bit different. After a few minutes, I figured it out, used a machine to get a refillable card, loaded it up, and swiped my way through the turnstile. The train was fast, as we sped through the tunnel, the structure shook like the very things holding it together were coming apart at the seams.
At the other end, I walked out into the warm downtown air and could see the ocean in the distance. People were everywhere and I joined the crowd. I had no idea where I was going, except to head towards the water. I took a hard left and walked along the coast. The Golden Gate Bridge was in the distance, and after spending the night at the airport, and being all cramped, it was great to be free. I weaved my way along the waterfront, climbed a few hills, and cut across the city. After all the energy it took to get here, I was really running on empty. It was time to go home.
Back at my place, beside the bed was a short row of books. Mostly business and travel books, except for one: Man’s Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl. I’ve had a copy of this for years, but never read it. The title scared me. Some books are forgettable, others follow you around. As I rested my sore feet, I cracked open the book. As I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed about Tragic Optimism: “The world is in a bad state, but everything will become still worse unless each of us does their best.”
My mission for the next day was to hit up The Mission District. Ever since You Shall Know Our Velocity! Dave Eggers has been a huge influence on me. Especially with how he uses his influence to do other things, such as help start 826 Valencia, which according to their website is: “An [international] organization dedicated to supporting under-resourced students ages six to eighteen with their creative and expository writing skills and to helping teachers inspire their students to write. Services are structured around the understanding that great leaps in learning can happen with one-on-one attention and that strong writing skills are fundamental to future success.” And here I was on Valencia Street! I just wanted to see the place and make sure it actually exists. I love that things like this exist in the world, it helps things be less worse. I feel it is full of individuals doing their best.
A good feeling to have until you’re walking down the street and watch a man get hit by a car. The crunch. The lonely skateboard. Somehow, the guy didn’t seem that hurt. He got up as though this was something that happens all the time, limped over to the sidewalk, and sat down on the curb. I had picked up his skateboard, walked over, and handed it to him. He thanked me as a crowd formed around him. He rubbed his neck but insisted that he was okay.
I continued into The Castro District. I believe that a place holds on to its history, and I’ve always been fascinated by Harvey Milk and all that happened here. Although it was only mid-morning, when I hit the main strip, there was a tall man standing at the corner dressed in head to toe leather and smoking a thick cigar. I smiled at him and he nodded. I visited the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender Historical Society Museum. The small but powerful exhibit ended with one of the last recordings Harvey Milk made before he died. He made it because he knew that his life was in danger. These words, sadly, still apply today:
“I fully realize that a person who stands for what I stand for - an activist, a gay activist - becomes the target or potential target for a person who is insecure, terrified, afraid or very disturbed. Almost everything that was done was done with an eye on the gay movement. I cannot prevent some people from feeling angry and frustrated and mad in response to my death, but I hope they will take the frustration and madness and instead of demonstrating or anything of that type, I would hope that they would take the power and I would hope that five, ten, one hundred, a thousand would rise. All I ask is for the movement to continue, and if a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door.”
My intention with a trip like this is to just hang out. I wasn’t in the mood to really do much except walk around in the warm weather, drink good coffee, read, and write. I’d be in San Francisco for New Year’s Eve, and I must admit that this was totally fine with me. I gave up on New Year’s Eve a long time ago. For this year, I ended up heading back to the place I was staying early, having been tuckered out after a long day of walking up and down steep hills.
The last time I had fun on New Year’s Eve was almost ten years ago when I was in Berlin. I had never seen anything like it up to that point, and nothing like it since. It was mass chaos out in the streets, complete with people passed out on the sidewalk. Others ignited cherry bombs and threw them into the subway as the doors closed. I watched a man climb down on to the subway tracks to retrieve a fallen half-bottle of vodka. A train was coming in the distance and came closer at an alarmingly fast speed. A friend of a friend lived in Berlin and I followed her around for half the night going in and out of dodgy night clubs, one of them had an entrance under a bridge that looked like an abandoned building. After losing her and striking out on my own, I watched a man dropkick another man and witnessed the most amount of vomit emanating out of people I had ever seen in my life. I mean, that was it - what could possibly top that?
Anyway, I digress. It was not nearly as exciting in San Francisco. As I walked home, some mild fireworks went off in the distance. New Year’s Eve is for couples being together and kissing at midnight. There was no one around to kiss me. I was in bed by 10:00 pm, which was fine by me.
I’d be returning the day before my birthday, which fell on a Monday, and which is a completely useless time to celebrate anything. So, I set aside an entire day in San Francisco to just do exactly every stupid thing I enjoy all at once.
I woke up early in the morning and went for a ridiculously gigantic breakfast at the IHOP down the street. During my 20s, I went through a significant obsession, as a lot of sensitively-minded young men do, with the Beat Generation. Kerouac was my guy, but also like a lot (or at least most) sensitively-minded young men, I grew out of this phase. That being said, I still found the famous City Lights bookstore and bought myself a book. I believe that spaces hold history, and many in the literary world from that time walked through those doors. I didn’t know what it was, but I felt something. Ghosts, maybe?
To finish the day, all I wanted to do was just go for a long walk. Close to where I was staying, there was a park that was a two for one: it was a - modest - mountain with hiking trails. I always like me a good mountain I can walk up. When I entered the park, there was a sign on the fence: Caution Hikers - You are in mountain lion territory. If I encountered a mountain lion, the sign suggested I was to pick up my child so we look like one giant person or shout really loud. Both of those things would definitely make a big difference. Especially since I didn't have a kid.
I followed a path that snaked around the mountain and gradually went up up up. Just like I kept saying to myself when my feet were getting damn tired along the way, I'm now saying to you - we've come this far, are you willing to go a little further?
See, I'm talking to you who might be reading this. It's taken me a few weeks to write this out, and it certainly shouldn't take that long. I kept writing surface stuff, just things that happened to me while I was on this trip. That's all fine, but I would be lying if I didn't say what was happening the entire time underneath.
As I get older and generally spend this after Christmas holiday by myself, it gets increasingly harder. This one was especially difficult. I've always been okay by myself and oftentimes prefer it. I've been in relationships before, some quite substantial and important. None long-lasting. Perhaps I am just getting into an age where time no longer unfolds in front of me infinitely? I can see an endpoint, and to be honest, it would be nice to have someone at my side to walk towards it.
It just really got to me this time. I firmly believe that I don't deserve to be with anyone. Although I can understand that that statement is intellectually ridiculous, the feeling inside holds it to be an undeniable truth. It has been a pattern throughout my life and most of my relationships. It's a pattern I've been trying to understand better in order to perhaps break it. But time is getting short. There is an endpoint to all this and it's coming faster than I imagined.
I'm at a point where I look back at all those experiences that were great but might've been made greater in being able to share them with someone. I have no one to blame except myself. I have a hard time detaching those parts of me that just doesn't make any sense anymore. Isn't there a point where you're supposed to be letting go of this stuff? Where you're able to cast all the unwanted parts of you away?
When I made it to the top of the mountain, I just sat under these giants trees that were lightly swaying in the wind. The sun crept between the trees. I just sat. Listened. I have stopped listening for an answer. I was not attacked by a mountain lion. I was trying to just do my best. I just listened to the trees, and the trees said: Ah, maybe.