My 10 concerts has always been one of the following:

And so they were…
Stars at Bimbos 365
Arcade Fire at Greek Theater
Muse at Bill Graham Civic Auditorium
Foster the People/Cults at The Fillmore
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah/Architecture in Helsinki at The Warfield

There was something special about Europe. Whether it was random chance that people I met really cared…or that it was culturally a slower pace of life. Even in the big cities.

A lunch is long. Even on a workday. It’s not frantic—less than an hour lunch—whether in mid-conversation, we would be checking the time trying to cram a 30 minute discussion into 5 minutes.

Dinner is also long. Sleep? Sure, at some point. But it’s the time spent with people. Want to know how long the wait might be at a restaurant? Servers won’t know because it’s expected that diners will linger long after the meal and after-dinner drinks are complete. Turning tables quickly is not natural.

When I arrived in New York City, it was an immediate cultural shock. Explicit short conversations from point A to point B. No apologies when shoved aside. Lingering is for tourists. Meals with friends are tap tap I have to go see another friend in 30 minutes.

But there was something unsettling in Europe. Despite never feeling racism growing up, I suddenly felt out of place. I grew up in a town that was mostly full of affluent Caucasians. But in Europe I never felt so…different. I am highly educated, a young professional in a creative field, speaking fluent English. But people who looked like me were found behind the counter at convenience stores.

So I returned to California and thought: this is it.

“Look at you!” my grandmother kept saying in Cantonese. “You’re are barely wearing anything!”

It was springtime today and I was driving her back to her apartment—in a senior living facility in Oakland Chinatown.

I still believe in your eyes…I’ll fly with you

For some reason, that song from my freshman year in college has returned in full force in my current playlist. I hadn’t heard it for more than 10 years. And then suddenly.

On the way back from Tahoe, we didn’t have any music except a CD case from the college years. So I put one with carefully handwritten title “Top Pops”.

And I heard the obviously autotuned female voice. The one that caught my attention while I was in the dorms. Maybe it was the song that I listened to while I was sulking about the breakup of my first boyfriend. The one that I listened to while I studied for linear algebra and intro to psychology. The song that I listened to overcome with social anxiety and unable to socialize with my floormates? Or was it when I was trying to figure out who were my real friends were?

Whatever it was…in that moment in the car on the way back from Tahoe, I couldn’t help but sing. It was rare. I never let myself go like that.

And it was bliss.

Then when I got back, I found the song and added to it my favorite on Spotify.

In fact, just now, I sensed that it was ending. So I went to double-click it—to play in a constant loop. I wonder what my friends on Facebook think when it appears multiple times in the feed.

Despite being organized about my life with rules and principles, despite my desire for structure in most things, despite being on the game in regards to planning…

…I have always been unable to consistently keep my room neat.

Neat? A four letter word when it comes to my physical life.

To me, it’s an organized mess. I have gotten to an age where I am able to keep areas that are common to others rather organized and tidy. I become almost super anal when those areas are not organized. However, when it comes to my space—my room, my bed, my desk…all of those organized tactics go out the window.

My books are stacks all on the floor. My clothes in various states of wear—freshly laundered or newly purchased—are in stacks throughout my room. My papers—from tax forms to receipts to pamphlets—are here and there.

And yet somehow I am able to go through life in some organized fashion. At some point, I was embarrassed to show my room when people visited and I would deliberately close my door, only showing them my living room and kitchen. But now, I gesture to my room: this is me and you need to accept that is who I am.

The train smelled and sounded familiar. Old faces. Old scenery. I saw University. I saw El Camino. The Stanford shuttle buses. Clipper cards.

But this time, a little different right? Out on the southside on a real bike. A building with keycard access only. Fraiche had moved and expanded. The air was different, maybe hopeful and wiser.

It had been 15 months since I had set foot in the city in the same way.

…it entrances me and suddenly the music is more meaningful.

I watch trailers, movies, and TV. Suddenly, the music entrances me. Unlike when I hear it on its own. Once the action, the drama, the comedy is demonstrated through melodies, crooning voices…it’s all different suddenly for me.

And I can’t help listening to over and over again.

I am part of the MTV generation.

And I cringe.

Bridal shower.

A high school friend’s bridal shower is tomorrow. Of course, it’s not to say that I am not honored to be invited. In fact, I really appreciate that our friendship has lasted for so long—all through the different phases of our lives, through the good and bad.

Initially, I thought: this is great! My friend is awesome and deserves to be celebrated.

But then I looked up the definition of a bridal shower. An event really centered around the gifts. It’s all female—because generally custom assumes that women have female friends only. It’s about dressing up in nice dresses, looking nice, eating salads…surrounded by lace, pastels, and more.

It’s my first bridal shower even though I am approaching my thirties.

So tomorrow morning, I will get up and drive to my parents’ house. I will have a present wrapped up in my trunk. I will write something on the card. I will wear a dress that I will decide on the last minute. I will wear a touch of eyeliner and mascara…perhaps even a dab of pseudo-lipstick. I will eat lunch with my parents…and then drive the 2 miles to my friend’s parents’ house. I will enter with a smile and stay with a smile through the shower, maintaining the mores of situations. Then I will enjoy it…I will enjoy it.

Because most importantly, this is a celebration of the next greatest phase of a treasured friend’s life.

“How did you like it?” he asked after the pizza was consumed.

“Poop,” I replied.

I don’t know why it is—whether it was years of having a distaste for bread, but pizza is not my favored item of choice for edibility. I find it mushy, especially when it gets to the crust. But recently, I was called upon to the fact that there is ONE pizza place that can change my mind.

But it was not the case. I was able to consume through some of the usual bits, but then came the crust. The taste of bread-ness was overwhelming and that shot the rest of the time. I did not want to have anymore pizza.

However, this does not mean that I do not understand why people cannot appreciate pizza. This does not mean that pizza is to be eliminated like the scorn of the earth. It’s simply because of me.

This time though, I tried, because I am always open to possibility.

I viewed the bridge from afar. In silence.