baja at 29

Nearly one year ago, on my golden birthday, I woke up to the Pacific Ocean. I was taken aback by how familiar that body of water has become. My 19-year-old self would've been astounded to know I'd been in Los Angeles for nearly three years at that point. An hour or so later, we drove to the border. I was unreasonably hungry (because we never do grow out of some ways of being) and nervous–what with my last name and the current President. The passport exchange was somehow more painless than previous drives from Canada; we found roadside churros also. Back in California, I turned my cell on to a cascade of happy 29th wishes via texts and voicemails. After a refreshing three day weekend in Mexico, I truly was. Happy, that is.

Happiness hasn't been something that's come easily in my twenties. I'm too learnedly cautious, or, as some may say, cynical. Whereas I desire an incredible amount from the world, I expect very little. I think that's why I've ended up inhabiting four cities in the past ten years. Submitting to one place requires a a reckoning with mundanity I've been far too intimidated to take on. And there's pressure in the choosing. And that's before considering the people that will matter there, the vulnerable investment true bonds require...

Clearly I'm still fearful. But I've also been ruminating over something my mom once said, about how 34 was her favorite because it was the age she fully embraced who she was and felt wholly satisfied with life she was creating. Even then I found the concept so beautiful. Now, I dually appreciate the courage that made it true. Living that sentiment might be what I'm most looking forward to. (For the record, I also intend to refute the claim that time's running out to visit these destinations. Are you kidding me.)

When he'd asked what I wanted to do for my birthday, I thought back to my 28th. I fondly remembered that Mexico has a wine country. We stayed by the water and dined in courses amongst the vines and made time for horseback riding, and ocean-front reading, and margaritas after a farm animal meet n' greet. We tasted a delectable array of smoky, sophisticated wines. It was such a privilege to satisfy so luxuriously; magical even. Here's to accepting more of that into this wild and precious life. Next month: 30, (Paris, Greece!).

the significance of that weekend in texas

Six months ago, I took my last 501 work trip to Corpus Christi (and later, Austin). I spent the first humid morning exploring by foot. I realized I recognized the small Texan city from having passed through more than ten years prior, on a spring break trip that most definitely reflected my age at that time (17). So much had changed since. I imagine I would've had the same enthusiasm to stop by Selena's memorial though. I was transported to singing along to her cassette tape in my dad's car, my mom explaining to me, months later, why he'd come home from work so upset. I recalled how special it'd been when we to dinner and to see Jennifer Lopez's debut.

I'd flown to Corpus Christi to supervise an event a new colleague was running. All went well. The following morning, we drove to Austin. I strolled from my Airbnb to another Austin-based colleague's home. We ended up on Rainey Street, others met us, and before long we were on a day-drinking adventure. I admired the easy, laid back approach to strong cocktails and good conversation, local beer and live music. It'd been awhile. I felt fortunate. I thought back to my road trip, when I'd just barely driven through.

On that last day in Texas, I traversed the entire city, UT Austin and the original Whole Foods included. I paused only for a Skype interview with an Executive Director, that has become my boss. Then I called my mom to join in my inspired excitement. What an opportunity! One that's moved me from Los Angeles to San Francisco, the California town I've seemingly always hoped to belong to.

So here I am, approaching 30, writing from the first city I've deliberately chosen as my own. It's amazing to reflect on just how much has been lived in the past decade+. Most worthwhile experiences have been documented on this blog; others, reserved for conversations with my closest confidantes, many of whom are still scattered around the world. And all the while an SF routine is in the making. Starting a new job, establishing new relationships, and creating a whole new branch of life is no less challenging simply because it's been done before. Thanks for bearing with me as I've come to acknowledge such wisdom. We'll be traveling again soon.

a weekend in sf

Upon discovering Anna and Leslie would be hiking Yosemite and then San Francisco in May, I decided to hijack their trip.

Last Thursday, I drove straight from the office to the airport and joined my two friends at a table at 1760. A painless 50-minute flight took place in between. And because the journey had been so easy, and because I've been working so hard and non-stop, I was hyper-excited about it. "I can't believe you're in San Fran! And I'm here, too!" Yes, dear self, this is what we call taking a long weekend...

{Oscar de la Renta: The Retrospective}

{Aperitifs at Rye}

{Breakfast by the beach (Outer Sunset)}

{A belated Cinco de Mayo party}

{Burning Man remains in Hayes Valley}

{Mission donuts and murals}

For someone who's stumbled into rooted contentment, it was so very refreshing to luxuriate in a different yet conveniently-close-by city—especially in the company of some of the world's best. I doubt I'll let another 5 years pass before my next weekend visit.

happy hours in amsterdam-oost

I stood at the door. The host had given me clear directions to the flat and promised me his friend would meet me at 3 o'clock with the keys. It was 4:18pm (or, 16h18). I called the friend. "Oh, your friend should be inside. She was on time." Which friend, I wondered. Following his instruction, I buzzed up to the flat. It wasn't long before I heard feet running down the stairs. Marie's cousin greeted me. Though I'd never met her in person, I was relieved to immediately recognize Charlotte. She felt the same; little introduction meant she could rest her lost voice. She turned to lead me up three steep and narrow flights. I practically held my suitcase above my head.

Fortunately, the airbnb was as cute and airy as expected. Worth the hike, in other words. My brother rang up a few minutes after I'd caught my breath. Soon after, Marie followed. Properly reunited and introduced, we set out on a leisurely walk to the De Gooyer Windmill. We had made plans to meet Lorelei for happy hour al fresco at Brouwerij 't IJ, Amsterdam's leading organic microbrewery.

The evening advanced organically (pun intended) from there. Thanks to Lorelei's local scoop and Dutch data, we tipsily strolled over to Roest. The laid-back industrial setting was perfect. We enjoyed a couple more beers with a casual spread of picnic food. We also boldly participated in the inflatable backyard fun--a bungee run and a two-man joust--until we discovered it'd been rented for a private event...

Eventually, the night winded down with gin cocktails, whiskey, and wine at Walter's, the Walter Woodbury Bar. It was a classier yet just-as-local haunt with a beautiful interior that was clearly influenced by its namesake--the 19th century English photographer who was one of the first to capture the "exoticism" of the Dutch East Indies. Given the atmosphere and plethora of libations, our conversation became a debate on culture and identity. My brother was absolutely enthralled. "The wonder of grad school abroad," I told him with a smile as we walked back to the airbnb. What a special understanding Jorgie and I now share.