Eight years ago standing near a large lawn near a college campus, a song blared with heavy drumbeats and catchy melody. In the distance, I spotted figures moving up and down. I started nodding my head with the beat. Looking at my friend, I said, “I want to dance!”

She frowned at the music.

I wish at that moment that I lost myself and danced. Danced like nobody was watching. But instead, I stood solemnly with her. Perhaps she saw noise. I saw joy, and then felt disappointment as I stood there.

My carpool mate suddenly asked, “How old are you?”

Just moments before, he talked about more than 15 years of moving from Norway back to Denmark then back to Norway then back to Denmark then to the United States. His struggles with relationships that made him make hard choices, often leading by emotions than logic. As so he claimed.

I shared how I went to college, then went to graduate school, then started working and climbed up levels, always wanting to move, but never quite moving. Changing jobs so frequently like all my peers in the Bay Area.

In his voice, I heard the sudden tinge of nervousness as he asked for my age. He looked for confirmation that my years of experience was equal to his years of experience. That seniority is equivalent to age. It was a common hint of anxiety I have heard from people older than me in the Bay Area. Especially where the youth is much more valued than the old.

As I started answering, I worried for a moment that his anxiety would rise. But how could I avoid the answer and shift seamlessly to another topic without awkwardness?

There’s a joke that floats in the blogosphere that surfaces anytime a comment is made against someone’s character: That’s RAY-cess.

After the 100th time of seeing it, I have lost its initial meaning, usually interpreting as—hey that’s funny.

Yet as a liberal San Franciscan, I cringe at any hint of discrimination. I call it out when people think Turkey is dangerous “like all those Muslim countries”. I speak outwardly about gender bias in authority.

Yet, how can we forget the fact that no matter what we say, we all each still have a bias inside us? That we have lived in a culture where discrimination especially racism is almost taught. Intellectually, I believe everyone has a fair chance. Yet I wonder why my body tenses up in Oakland and why assumptions spread in my head about someone who has darker skin.

Yes, I can’t help that I don’t have a positive association. I want to have a positive association, but it doesn’t come naturally.

Buzzfeed caught my eye on this one. Because I am just over 30.

And it drives me crazy how much I used to be ok with in my twenties. And how now, I just don’t do loud noise, cramped concerts, and…how I have an increasing admiration of “role models” in their 30s.

Now older and jaded, I look back at my experiences and think, “Did I really do that?”

In the last year (due to the common topic in my FB and Twitter feed), I have read the sadness that comes with rape cases. Plus all the controversy generated by male politicians.

My sister always believes that the question What’s the craziest thing you have ever done says a lot about a person, because it’s a sign of their adventure, their risktaking sensibility, evidence of what is outside their comfort zone, their storytelling ability, etc. etc.

I have always told two stories. The time that I met someone from an accidental phone call in Berkeley, which ended up more awkward than dangerous. And the time that I got sidetracked into almost a dangerous alley with a middle-aged stranger while I was licking an ice cream cone.

As I tell those stories, I describe it with vivid detail. The way I felt. The adrenaline of discovering something new. And yet, I would never recommend it to anyone else. Because now, I almost think…I probably was close to something dangerous. But I always thought that I was rather powerful in my youth—that the news never happens to me (and it still hasn’t). But what if the guy changed his mind and pursued something malicious instead of me walking away thinking only well, that was awkward.

Is it because I refuse to be intoxicated? Is it because I don’t wear makeup? Is it because I never dress provocatively preferring comfortable clothes? Is it because I can have a shrill voice and can at will, assert an aggressive personality (and bite) when something doesn’t go my way? Probably not, because based on all the stories out there, it doesn’t matter. It matters that violations of personal boundaries are not committed. At the very least, I hope that all situations are handled delicately and properly. Without stupidity. And most importantly, that such cases just do not happen.

In Before Midnight (new favorite movie), a dinner scene enfolds with couples talking about what loves mean to them. Especially at their current age as it pertains to their current generation. The young adults who meet so serendipitously…but are full of practicality. Then the middle-aged couple who talk with ease. Celine and Jesse of course talking wistfully of their meet cute moment of soulmates…and then breaking into what reality really means in terms of love. And finally, the quiet older woman who speaks of love floating through—the moments that you grip and hold…and realize that they drift away as life does.

It was beautiful. So connected.

But what struck me the most was…how I have yet to be at a dinner conversation where every participant can engage at that same level. Where we can ask each other why and we sit back to ponder, thinking aloud, with such easy grace. Most people in the world are concrete speakers. In the Myers-Brigg world, they are strong in S or sense. They speak about what is in front of them and think about what is in front of them.

I, on the other hand, find it easy to speak concrete, but I truly relish speaking in abstract. I love thinking about philosophy. Thinking about what could be possible. What if. What actions and consequences mean to the entire world. I know that if everyone in the world thought like me, I would go crazy. Yet, I feel so lonely if I don’t get a taste of abstract thinking every so often. Is that why I work in design? And have this incredible desire to write?

When people ask me about ice cream, they often ask about “the craziest flavor”. This is where I tilt my head slightly and say, “Ah, but is it crazy when locals don’t think it’s crazy? And then I don’t find it crazy?” But I stop myself, because I think that I am coming off a little philosophical and a little too snotty. I can sense their glazed eyes, seeking something concrete, something to hold onto. So I get to their level, knowing that they are asking about a flavor that they haven’t experienced. So I start simple with something American-made: Goat cheese ice cream, I exclaim.

Surprised, they often react, “But how is that possible? How does goat cheese get into ice cream?”

I smile and say, “It is stirred into the cream!”

But the flavor topic isn’t enough for me and I can’t help veering into philosophy. I say that ice cream is happy. I say that it is one of the few foods that is shareable. Then I describe the experiences about re-experiencing our childhood. But I am sad when I only see blank stares when I am hoping for someone to pause…and think thoughtfully like me.

“Let’s take photos of what we are eating!” I exclaimed.

So we carefully moved our plates into position and held our phones above. Click. Then we uploaded it to twitter with a slightly boastful comment.

“There is a crash at SFO!” he exclaimed. “It’s all over twitter.”

We gazed down on our food, steaming and swimming in richness. Both of us exchanged embarrassed looks for our rare boast of food.

As the news reports rolled in, we became part of the concerned public. We trolled twitter for commentary. Then the restaurant turned on the large TV blasting the breaking news. Fellow customers made loud generalization — “They say SFO is so unsafe because of the fog!” and “I flew into SFO just a few days ago.” Everyone including me was suddenly an expert on everything.

I know that it’s because all of us were suddenly aware of our own mortality and how short our lives could be.

But later, I came across Sheryl Sandberg’s commentary on her Facebook. My first thought was “Well couldn’t I tell everyone that I landed at SFO just over two weeks ago and I am so glad that I wasn’t there!” But that seemed insensitive and disrespected the tragedy. So I held my lip, just hoping that it was going to be a miracle landing.

But as the top story of Sandberg’s “miraculous choice” zoomed to top all news outlets…I wondered if she was well-deserved? And I wanted to add my own snarky commentary as we listened to all the radio reports from eyewitnesses who blurted how they were driving by SFO and saw…smoke! And that they saw…more smoke! And that they are unhappy!

Regardless, I loved this comment from the gawker post:

Nilla Waffler: You guys. I was on a jet out of Portland with a connection in Newark. One year later BAM 9/11.

Thank god I’m ok though, right?

When we returned, I breathed a sigh of relief. Our bikes were still there. Frame. Two wheels.

I always have trepidation about riding my bike downtown and locking it up, especially during the evening…when it seemed that the thieves appear from the woodwork.

As I was locking my bike earlier, I thought about racial profiling re: bike theives. And I thought about how I would look if I walked around with a bolt cutter. Would anybody stop me or would they come over and help?

But when did we return, I struggled with my lock because I somehow had it twisted between our bikes. A friend just happened to walk by and I joked, “I thought that you were going to stop us from stealing bikes.”

As she walked away, we noticed that something was amiss. Our brakes were extremely misaligned. The wheel lock for Chris’ rear wheel was lifted.

Someone was doing something. But whatever happened, they decided not to complete.

Was it because I had made a mess with the locks and had jammed it sideways? Was it because my bike had really awkward fenders? Was it because Chris had put two locks on his bike? And why didn’t they steal my rear wheel which was not locked? Was it because the locks made it a human puzzle to get anything out?

Whatever the case, it’s not the traffic of San Francisco, it’s not the dangerous MUNI rails…it’s the fact that bikes (and its parts) are stolen so frequently that deters me from riding my bike everywhere. After all, on the street, there are only a few things of value: cash, drugs, and bikes.

After asking how old I was, the six year old boy asked me a direct question, “Why aren’t you married?”

I smiled and started to open my mouth. Then I noticed Chris shooting a glare across the room and shaking his head—DO NOT. REPEAT DO NOT GIVE THAT ANSWER. DON’T YOU REALIZE THAT THE FAMILY JUST CAME BACK FROM A CHRISTIAN MISSIONARY IN CHINA his laser stare said.

So instead of saying a cop-out liberal answer of I don’t want to marry until everyone can marry, I said, “There are many complex reasons. You will understand when you’re older.”

One week ago, I returned from my 6 week journey from the East Coast to Italy to Turkey.

And every day feels surreal. Mornings feel like afternoon. Nights feel like early morning.

I got pulled into working at the office again. I say the words that I say. They seem foreign tumbling out of me, after several weeks trapped with language barriers.

I take in the sweet life of living in San Francisco. I am surprised by restaurant service. I am surprised when not everything closes on Sunday. I am surprised that my wireless network here just works.

Everything is familiar. I know it. I returned having a feeling that everyone here could potentially experience what I did. But then I remember that many people here have not even left the vicinity since I left.

Life hasn’t changed for them. I would like to say that life changed for me. But I cannot say anything until my gaze returns to normal, and I can say with much strength, “I have returned, and I am ready to share.”