I took my glasses and rubbed them with the towel. Putting them on, the world was clear to me. Focused now, but it’s open. It hurt, with the bright, sharp, vivid features.

Here I can see the interpersonal conflicts so clearly. There in the far corner are the issues that I need to deal with. To my right, the endless raging emotions call to me.

In that second, I pause and reflect through my clear glasses so designed to correct my high myopia.

I switch to the polarized tinted sunglasses. No myopia correct. The world is now fuzzy and unclear. But it’s brighter now. A full sepia hue of an era past.

“Help help!” a five-year old guest yelled in the bathroom a few weekends ago.

The door was stuck. It wouldn’t budge. The non-lazy adults immediately got up from the couch where we had been enjoying the Euro 2012 semifinals. Some of us trying pushing the door so that it could be opened. Others tried coaching little Luca on how to open the door. I felt guilty for not allowing our broken bathroom door to exist. After all, a few years ago I too panicked inside the bathroom when the handle fell off completely.

It was shut. Eventually we figured out that he had taken the key out the door. Oddly enough, despite living at my place for almost 6 years, no guest nor roommates nor myself…had ever used the key. I always had left it on the door, not particularly interested in locking the door. Because hey people, if the door is shut, it means that I don’t want YOU coming in. If the door is not shut, come in to poop, pee…or do whatever business you need to do.

Moments later, we coached Luca to put the key back into the door and the door unlocked…open. Unscathed. Amazingly, he just looked thrilled (maybe because he was already bored of being adults who were being stone-faced and uninteresting during the soccer game). He jumped up and down while his parents gave him a hug for being so courageous.

Ever since then (and probably caused by other incidents), the bathroom door started having issues. It was hard to close. It made this loud sound. The kind that happened at 3 am…and would wake me up with a start. Oh hai roommate home after a crazy night out! I just couldn’t take it anymore and every night, I would try to make a mental note that I wanted that door fixed.

But then Chris looked at it. A screwdriver, a shoe…was all he needed to fix it. He left a post-it on the door, “Hey Paco! I fixed the door and now it closes silently! ~CT” I didn’t wake up at all that night. The next morning, there was a scribble on the note, “Thank you!”

Surrounded by people I didn’t know, I felt free suddenly to state my weaknesses bluntly and honestly. Despite my wavering voice, I didn’t hesitate in telling everyone about my anti-alcohol feelings, my odd no-touch no-huge zone. I was quite certain that my words reeked of my insecurity and anxiety.

Yet, I was not that deathly afraid.

See this contrast to a room full of people that I knew. Perhaps people that fell into my number two circle. These are the people that I consider close…but maybe not horribly too close. I would hesitate depending on the state of my relationship with them.

Sometimes I would be the poseur—to appear to be smarter and resourceful than I really was. Or I would feel guilty…needy…trying everything to avoid abandonment and be accepted.

But in a room full of strangers, I have nothing to lose. They didn’t accept me prior to this moment. I don’t expect them to do so, because I am not seeking to accept them. At the very least, I just want to be heard for a single moment. After that, I really don’t care.

Shortly after I returned from my trip, I wrote reasons about why I stayed.

But now…almost 6 months later, it’s almost because I am afraid of becoming the self-absorbed New Yorker. It’s unlikely that I will stumble around Brooklyn or Lower East Side drunk (it has never been my style). And it would be difficult to find me entangled in multiple love affairs.

I just don’t want to become that person that says, “I can’t live anywhere else.”

I don’t want to be the girl that lectured me on my third day in New York. Sitting in a dark trendy bar, my sister had gone to the restroom so suddenly there was this awkward space between her friend and me. Out of politeness, I made small talk—who are you, where are you from, maybe I am moving to New York…I don’t know. But it was the last part, maybe I revealed a bit of self-doubt…whatever it was, suddenly for the next several minutes, she threw her hands up in the air. I felt like she was shaking me—OF COURSE YOU WANT TO MOVE HERE. YOU BETTER MOVE HERE. THIS IS THE PERFECT TIME.

It frightened me. I had opened a bit of myself and suddenly there was this new yorker who was telling me what she believed and what she believed that I should do. The emphasis on should.

I didn’t be her. I didn’t want to be the gossipy Upper East side locals that walked around with the New Jersey accent. I could tell that they were absolutely city folk—suburbs? pshaw! $10 for a gallon of milk? Absolutely!

I could not do it. And even though I say right now that I don’t want to move from San Francisco, I know that I could. Purely right now, it’s because I live in a neighborhood where people I trust live. It’s because of familiarity. It’s because I actually unlike some San Franciscans…really do love the mild chilly weather. Maybe it’s because my family is across the bay. But in the end, really…it’s because I have lived here. So as a result, that’s why I can imagine myself right here. And I know that I can imagine myself elsewhere—if I really wanted to.

I dipped the wooden spoon into the mixture and swiped the back with my finger. For the first time in 2 years, it drew a clean line. Relief. Ecstasy. Thrill.

I finally made custard without eggs curdling.

And all of this reminded me of what I loved so much about cooking and baking. Although I lack the proper attention to detail and am inundated by constant laziness (witness my inability to measure half a cup — look I can just use a 1/4 measuring cup and estimate!), the whole process is so therapeutic.

I grab a fork to swirl the eggs. I dump the sugar into the milk. I drop a star anise into the mixture. Carefully adjust the heat—not too much, but not too little. Like a child—carefully shaped in few seconds, minutes… It’s not entirely forgiving, but I manage.

No computer can be touched. No phone can be attended. I am alone with my ingredients and the instructions that I may or may not have memorized. In these moments, I am alone with the process and for once, happy.

It was past 9 pm. Dark. Streets only lit up the flickering street lamps. They led the way as promised.

I was delighted by the music pulled along by bike trailers—seeing fellow cyclists help push the music up hills. The neon lights—some spinning amused me. Then there was the steady descent where I decided to race down—fast. The cold wind of the night was forgotten as I pumped down the hill, not caring how much I was weaving, drifting into the opposite lane. No brakes, no stopping.

“That was the best ride ever,” I declared as I pulled into civic center.

So in the morning, I decided that I wanted to do it again. But this time, not surrounded by packs…with the entire route lit up by sunlight and filled with standard traffic…it wasn’t the same.

The climbs was painful without the right pacing. The descent was interrupted by regular angry drivers.

The daylight took away the joyful mystery.

Camping? I have always said no.

Yet, last year I was the one who drove a trip to Macchu Picchu. Like any true traveler, I believed that I had to see it the right way—by doing the 4 day trek along the Inca Trail. My former roommate had described the trek as amazing, mind-blowing, incredible. So despite always hating the idea of camping, I was committed.

Granted, I knew what I was getting into. The discomfort. The potential of slowness. Anything was possible.

And it was exactly that. Although I would not admit it for weeks after the trip, I eventually did conclude after the entire trip that I simply did not like camping. Or maybe the outdoors.

I disliked:

Nonetheless, I abhor the idea of car camping. To me, it’s not even camping. Why not just rent a cabin then? If I had to do camping, I would do it all the way. And yet, I would not do it. Period.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” he ended his goodbye.

Completely clueless, I responded, “Tomorrow?”

“Fireworks?” he hesitated and I saw his facial expression change. “Unless..you’re not coming?”

“Oh, I didn’t know that it was happening! I usually think things don’t happen unless I see it in print.”

“Ah, well happy fourth!” he quickly covered up his embarrassment.

I had a single goal in mind. Go to the restrooms. With a friend, we made our way following the signs. He and I saw the line to the women’s restrooms at the same time.

“I think that you’re better off going once the show starts,” he said and hopped down the stairs to the lovely pleasures of being male.

I sighed loudly, hopping foot to foot—trying to decide what to do.

Then suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. She was in her early 40s. Well-dressed, upper middle class…certainly one of the many that just consumed the overpriced wine without a single thought.

She said in a low voice, “Hey pregnant lady, come with me. There’s a secret entrance to the restroom. You don’t have to wait.”

I hesitated. I was not pregnant. Instead, I considered my options and stuttered, “Oh…okay…”

She read my hesitation as disbelief of her honesty. “No no, let me show you,” she led me toward the second set of stairs. “Just go that way and they won’t bother you. You couldn’t have known that there was a line on the other side. Go go.”

I was overcome with the need to desperately pee and said my thanks. Behind me, I could hear her male companion ask her what she was doing. She responded, “I am just helping her out.”

As I walked to the stairs, all I could think was…Did I get fat?

But I dismissed that thought and walked right in as a woman left a stall. I felt so much relief.

I was walking back from brunch, thinking about what else I needed to do before heading downtown. Not paying heed to anyone I passed on my busy street. It was a lazy weekend morning.

As I passed a Mexican boy of 10 years old, he looked straight at me. He cupped his chest and jiggled the imaginary sandbags as if they were bouncy. Then he declared loudly, “Hola, chica!”

At first, I was nonplussed. I was silent and did not react. But moments later after he had passed me…I started cracking up and couldn’t stop laughing.