So. What are you wearing?

C’mon, you can tell us. We all have a favourite outfit or two – pants that make our bums look great, a shirt we reach for when we know the ex will be at the party. Open your closet and show us what’s inside.

Describe your perfect interview outfit, the fashion disasters that have haunted you, the items you’ve bought and never worn (or will never wear again). Or just use your clothes to remind you of where you were and what you were doing when you last wore them.

–

Silk

Left to my own devices in the Soho neighbourhood of New York, where all the stores live, I will inevitably end up spending a stupid amount of money at Madewell. But there was just no way I could have walked out of that store without that silk shirt, a fetching little peach number: a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I loved the feel of silk against my skin, the way it draped over my body; hiding everything I hate about it and emphasising the things I like.

I bought it. Price tag be damned, future dry-cleaning expenses be damned. I looked good in that shirt.

I wore it for the very first time the next day, New Year’s Day, an unseasonably warm winter’s day in New York. That silk shirt, dark blue jeans, a grey wool blazer that I had bought from Uniqlo the same day I bought the shirt, grey oxfords with no socks, my brown leather satchel. The perfect brunch outfit, I thought. But brunch turned into a pho lunch instead; just the three of us – me and Elaine and Zak, because a certain someone was too hung-over and exhausted to venture out of Queens (or her bed, for that matter). Afterwards, we went for a stroll through Washington Square Park, cooing over all the dogs. Zak’s older brother and his family eventually joined us. Later that evening, I would hold tiny little Dani on my lap, feeling her weight resting against me, against that silk shirt, listening to the sound of her adorable chatter.

A week later: wandering through the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco, in the same outfit but with different jeans – a faded wash, this time. I prefer faded jeans for daytime; it conveys a certain sense of nonchalance, of a kind of casualness that is entirely appropriate for day time – or so I like to think. I am wandering through the museum alone, I am blissfully happy (if a little lonely), and I am feeling very pretty in this silk shirt.

It is almost enough to make me forget the fact that my hair is a little bit dirty that day.

A handsome man strikes up a conversation with me at the Francesca Woodman exhibition. We talk briefly about the things we’d seen at the museum, then go our separate ways. I fall in love with the photographs on display; wonder if there is an exhibition book of some sort, and if there is any space left in my luggage for it. The man reappears as I am nearing the end of the exhibition. This time, we introduce ourselves. We shake hands, and he tells me that I have such a firm handshake, I should probably go to work in the corporate world. I tell him, in a stage whisper, grinning, “Shh. I’m a management consultant.” He smiles. He seems like a really nice guy, so when he asks me if I’d like to have coffee with him some time, if he could have my number, I don’t think twice – I recite the number I’d come to learn by heart after nearly two weeks in the US.

Later, I marvel at the ease with which I’d acted, at the confidence I displayed. The entire exchange is a novelty – these things don’t happen to me, ever. Men do not just randomly approach me, strike up a conversation, and then ask me out; Boo used to say (still says) that I have a hidden “FUCK OFF” sign on my forehead that I’m unaware of but which men pick up on. I text Elaine that night, to tell her what happened. She replies, “Your life is officially a movie right now.”

Life sucker-punches you.

You are left reeling. You are left pondering the miracle and fragility of life. And it hits you with stunning clarity that there is a very high price to pay for choosing to build a life far away from the people you love. They are grieving now, and you are far, far away.

It kills me that I’m not there with them right now.

It kills me that I’m grieving alone. But this isn’t about me; it’s about them, and I desperately want to be there with them right this very minute, but I can’t.

All I can do now is keep my phone close to me; ready to pick up when it rings. All I can do now is listen.

I am obviously not complaining about the latter: one of my other goals for this year is to meet new people, and I’d like to think that I’m off to a good start.

But on the subject of the getting together of the financial shit: being an adult is haaaard.

I’ve been pretty hyper-aware of the amount of money I’ve been spending lately – and how could I not be, when I’m keeping track of all my expenditure using the iXpenseIt app on my iPhone? It’s not the first time I’ve done this, and trust me, there is nothing more sobering/alarming than realising just how much money you spend on coffee each month.

Anyway, I decided to get back into the iXpenseIt habit this year, because of the aforementioned “Get my financial shit together” goal. In doing this, I realised that I’ve come to hold myself to a few rules when it comes to money.

In no particular order (other than that required to facilitate a decent structure to this post, ha), here are my money rules:

+ A certain (slightly ridiculous) percentage of my salary goes immediately into my savings account (via the automatic savings plan feature that my bank offers). My savings account is really my travel fund, because there is only one thing in my life that I am absolutely sure of: I need to travel. I need to see the world. So I do what I have to do: I scrimp on the amount of  disposable income that I have to play with each fortnight, because that big end of year trip to wherever is absolutely worth it.

+ Never carry more credit card debt that you can immediately pay off in one hit. I don’t get to take credit for this rule – this is something I got from Erna’s friend Charlie, who said his mother told him this. It’s a great rule, and one that I probably would have come up with eventually on my own: turns out I really don’t like owing the bank money. I tend to start hyperventilating a little bit when my credit card debt starts creeping towards four figures … which it’s currently doing now. Because being a curious person who wants to learn new things all the time is expensive, ugh.

+ At the end of each day, all the coins left in my wallet go into the TARDIS money box on my desk. Every. Single. Coin. Even if it means that I end up putting aside over $10 in coins (because we have $1 and $2 coins here in Australia), and I’m a tiny bit broke and could really use that extra $10.

Not bigger on the inside, unfortunately.

It’s well worth it though – I paid for a week in Malaysia last year with the contents of that TARDIS money box.

(I love you, exchange rate between the AUD and the MYR)

+ No more buying things from the convenience store near my apartment. If I ever run out of anything, unless it’s a vital ingredient in whatever I’m fixing myself for dinner, I’ll just wait until the weekend when I can get to the supermarket. For one thing, the convenience store is stupidly expensive compared to the supermarket. Also: I generally only need to go to the convenience store because I’ve run out of Doritos.

Um.

This is obviously not a healthy habit to indulge.

(I really need to stop eating Doritos)

+ Pack lunch three times a week, at least, but not on a Friday. (Because Friday is for going out to lunch with the co-workers)

This rule would be more impressive if I was packing actual food for lunch, but more often than not, it’s just fruit or yoghurt or cheese and crackers or … me going home to eat junk food.

(FAIL)

+ Spend money on experiences, not things. (And eating out at good cafes and restaurants totally count as experiences)

Travelling the world, writing courses, French lessons – all these things are absolutely worth the hard-earned money I spent/will be spending on them. After all, these things make me a better person. Brunch and dinner and cocktails and coffee … well, these things don’t necessarily make me a better person, sure – just a happier, more fun one – but if the alternative is sitting at home feeling bored out of my mind and potentially being a bad friend, then you know what? I’m going to throw on a cute outfit and go out to eat and drink all the things with my friends.

Breakfast of Champignons at Duchess of Spotswood

And then later there were drinks with Pimms in it, and fries with spicy relish at Rooftop Bar, all of which were already in our bellies by the time this photo was taken. (Thanks, random dude at the table!)

New clothes and shoes that I don’t need do NOT make me a better person. Step away from the store, Rae.

But having said that…

+ I only buy things that I absolutely love. 

Like, actual love. “I cannot walk out of this store without this item because it will fucking break my heart” love.

(Why, yes, I do get that dramatic over and emotionally invested in inanimate objects)

Sometimes it’s also a case of “Goddamn, I look HOT in this”.

This is not a convenient rule, largely because I tend to find things that I absolutely love and cannot leave the store without at really inconvenient times, i.e. when I’m not supposed to be spending money unnecessarily because I just paid off all the travel expenses I charged on my credit card and my savings account has just taken a huge hit as a result and OH MY GOD I BETTER NOT HAVE ANY KIND OF AN EMERGENCY THAT REQUIRES A LOT OF CASH. And these things that I love are always – ALWAYS – the last one on the rack/shelf, the last one in my size, or it’s a one of a kind item.

UGH.

(#firstworldproblems)

Anyway, this is why I ended up buying a scarf a couple of weekends ago. A SCARF. IN THE MIDDLE OF A HOT MELBOURNE SUMMER.

But you guys, I really love this scarf. Even if I can’t wear it right now.

The scarf. That I bought in the middle of a hot summer. Yeah.

Anyway. So these are my money rules (and they won’t necessarily make sense to anyone else). What are yours?

– I don’t travel light. I feel like that’s a personal flaw – why am I incapable of leaving the apartment without taking a million things with me?

Also, I’ve clearly jumped on the Le Pliage bandwagon, and I sort of hate myself for it. Every girl and her damn grandmother owns one of these Longchamp bags, but it turns out there’s a perfectly legitimate reason for this: the bag is sturdy, lightweight, and fits ALL of my crap, including the big stash of fruits I’ve been bringing in to work every day this week.

The big stash of fruits is not pictured here, because it had all made its way into my mouth by the time this photo was taken.

– Speaking of fruits in my mouth, I put a banana in my mouth the other day, got distracted by work e-mails and then completely forgot that there was a banana in my mouth, waiting for me to eat it.

Take a second to picture that, and you’ll see why I was mortified when I realised what I was doing.

(And at WORK, too!)

– Sometimes I feel like a fraud: I’m only playing the role of the competent employee and responsible adult. I’m not actually a competent employee and responsible adult; I’ll get caught out eventually. Most days, I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing. I tend to forget that I’m actually good at my job. Worse still, I tend to forget that I’m 26 years old and no longer need to ask for permission to do things, that my life is my own, and I am entirely responsible for creating the life I’d like to live.

It’s hard for me to not feel like I’m just playing a role, and that people will eventually catch on and realise that I really have no fucking clue.

I’ve been told that I need more self-confidence, and that I need to be less risk-averse. I’m working on it.

– I really fucking love that so many people have been saying this to me, in response to my telling them about my big scary goals: “Well, what’s stopping you?”

The answer to that question is this: “Nothing, really.”

I just need to get my butt into gear, and find some guts – a little chutzpah – in the meantime.

– Life would be a lot less expensive if I didn’t feel an irresistable need to keep learning new things. Learning another language and mastering the art of essay-writing are not cheap activities, unfortunately.

Having said that, I need to remember that at least I’m fortunate enough to be in a position where French lessons and writing courses are options available to me. Expensive options, sure, but it’s an investment in my future and the life I’d like to live, so there’s that. It boils down to this: less complaining, more belt-tightening. Just shift things around in the budget – pack lunch, drink less, etc. You have to find a way to make these things work.

– I tend to lose myself in a book – you could be screaming my name loud enough to wake the dead, and I won’t even look up. It doesn’t even register; I’m that absorbed in what I’m reading.

I found myself wondering the other day if anyone would ever find this endearing. Would anyone love me for this particular quality?

No one has, so far.

– I miss San Francisco.

I like going home at lunch: this generally only happens on the rare occasions when I’m working at The Firm’s office and not at the client’s, when work is a little bit slow and I don’t really have much to do, and when I haven’t already made lunch plans with anyone else. I’ll go home for lunch then; home, where it’s quiet and cool (usually, anyway), and I get to sit down at my desk and eat Doritos in peace. No health-conscious co-workers nagging me about my unhealthy eating habits at home, nope.

I’m actually trying to eat healthier these days, but becoming a Fit and Healthy Rae is a journey marked by baby steps rather than leaps and bounds; it is not an overnight change. I mean, Doritos are delicious, OKAY? And I am still mostly too lazy to cook dinner for one.

Anyway, I also like going home for lunch because it means that I get to read, or write, or even nap, sometimes. Sometimes I end up going home at lunch because I am in dire need of a nap.

I like wearing Havaianas during the commute to work on really hot summer days like today.

I like the feel of silk against my skin on really hot summer days.

Something else I like: the pressure that comes with participating in this self-imposed 9.37 Project. I decided to jump on Amber and Drea’s bandwagon: every day, at 9.37p.m. I stop to take a photo of whatever it is I’m doing at that very moment, and I share it on Instagram (I’m raihanaaaa on there).

Like so:

9.37p.m. on Sunday night: fixing lunch for the next day. I actually ruined this dish – my egg to cheese ratio was way off (dammit). 

I’m doing it because it forces me to become more mindful of what I’m doing with my time – my precious, limited time. There is nothing quite like knowing that the (mostly) faceless Internet is going to see exactly what I’m up to each night to really take the time to (sometimes figuratively) get off my arse and do all my things. And I do have a lot of things to do – working towards the big scary goals and all that, things that need to be worked on during the night after work and yoga, and trying to maintain a social life.

Also: chores. The laundry’s not going to fold itself, missy.

I’ve decided that I also like Sundays in Melbourne, particularly sunny ones (ha!) like yesterday. If you ever come to visit me, you should make sure to include a Sunday in your trip. We’d go to Queen Victoria Market to pick up the week’s supply of fruits and the odd vegetable or two (mushrooms are vegetables, right?). I’d buy you a lamb borek afterwards, maybe some doughnuts, which we would then take to Market Lane Coffee across the street, so we could wash them down with a lovely pour-over coffee, or maybe a latte. We’d sit by the windows and just watch people walk past, and talk about everything, or maybe just sit in comfortable silence together, lost in our own thoughts.

Later in the afternoon, after we’ve dropped the groceries off at my place, we could go to the Rooftop Bar and have a couple of cold drinks in the shade of a giant umbrella, watching the hipsters hanging around doing the same, listening to the ’90s music blaring in the background. You could order a burger and fries if you’re hungry.

Does that sound good? I hope it does. It’s not exactly a routine Sunday for me, not yet anyway. I’m really describing the perfect little Sunday I had last weekend. I’d like Sundays like that to become a summertime routine.

I like routines. (I also like breaking routines from time to time)

This is my daily routine: I stumble out of bed and into the kitchen, where I pour myself a glass of water, and down it while making myself some peanut butter toast. I eat said peanut butter toast while reading blogs and catching up on my Twitter feed. I wash down the toast and a multivitamin with a glass of milk, then wash the dishes, hit the shower, get dressed, and get out the door. I read a book on the tram into the city. First stop of the day: Brother Baba Budan for my coffee and some quiet writing time (although I should really make more of an effort to talk to people instead, sometimes). I’m often writing about the previous day, or writing to psych myself up for that day, or about the strange little thoughts that float through my brain.

Here’s a secret: sometimes, I am writing to God. It’s the only way I know how to talk to Him these days. As it turns out, I can’t stop wanting things. I want my life to turn out a certain way, and I need Him to give me a helping hand sometimes (and He is; sometimes these letters are thank you notes).

It makes me feel better to talk to Him.

(I know at least one guy who’ll be happy to hear that. I miss you, Boo.)

When it comes down to it though, I think it’s good that I still want things, all the big, scary things. I’d like to think that it means that I haven’t given up – on life, or on myself. I’d like to think that it means I’m still hopeful and optimistic – even if I cringe sometimes when I hear myself say these things. Drinking the optimism Kool-Aid, yep. And then I remember that there is nothing wrong with being hopeful and optimistic. You get what you project to the world. The things you love and want move toward you. I actually believe that.

Sometimes, late at night – when the lights, music and laptop have all been switched off – I’ll lie in bed and think to myself, “This is it. This is all there will ever be. Just me, alone in a bed too big for one person.”

It’s a little embarrassing to admit this, but there it is: late at night, when my guard is down, when it’s just me and my semi-drowsy thoughts in that twilight moment before sleep takes hold, I fear that I’ll never have love in my life again. I fear that there is no lasting romance in my future, no happy marriage, no family of my own.

Not all of us are lucky enough to find love.

Not all of us are lucky enough to find love more than once.

Because here’s the thing, the really crazy thing (and I KNOW this is crazy): I’m superstitious enough to believe that life and the Universe may want to punish me for walking away from the man who spent eight years of his very young life loving me and putting up with all my weirdness, my passive-aggressive behaviour, my inability to adequately communicate what I want. I’m superstitious enough to believe that I’ll get what’s coming to me for walking away from someone who, by the standards of the culture and society I was born into, is a total catch.

But he wasn’t the right man for me. Staying with him would have been settling for ‘good enough’.

I have been made to understand that most girls wouldn’t have ended the relationship. They would have stayed. They would have settled for ‘good enough’.

I believed (and still believe) that I’m too young to be settling for ‘good enough’.

My fear, however, is that I will wake up alone one day and realise that I was absolutely wrong, that I should have settled for good enough.

So here I am, right back to square one. I am right back to where I was at the age of 18, when I said this to the boy who would one day become Boyfriend, and is now He Who Was Formerly Known As Boyfriend (are you keeping up?):

I love my life. It’s going rather well, if I do say so myself. I don’t want for anything.

It’s just that, it’d be nice to share it with someone, you know?

This is my confession. What’s yours? I’d love to hear about it – share in the comments, or shoot me an e-mail at raihanaaaa [at] gmail [dot] com. 

One day.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

That day hasn’t come yet. (Well, duh)

And you know what? That’s perfectly fine. I’ve got a very long way to go still when it comes to writing. I’ve barely started.

Until then, I need to remember this:

My day job allows me to do all the things I want to do. My day job keeps me in books and nearly endless cups of coffee. My day job pays for drinks on Friday night and brunch on the weekends and silk dresses at Madewell (even if I had to wait until the store knocked 30% off the price of said dresses). My day job allows me to say “TREAT YO SELF” every so often – this fortnight’s planned treat: a Lamy fountain and ballpoint pen set that I should not be this excited about, seriously. My day job pays for yoga classes and French classes and long holidays at the end of the year.

My day job allowed me to say “Yes, okay, I’ll make a random trip down to Los Angeles just to hang out with a bunch of really cool girls!”

(Which I did, and it was awesome, and seriously, I need to live in the same time zone as these ladies)

(L-R: Drea, Amber and Lanny)

I am still learning all kinds of new things in my day job. Which is nice.

So I’m not going to complain…much. Yes. I will not complain too much – because saying that I will never complain EVER is pretty much impossible, COME ON. I’m only human, and I have only so much patience for the more frustrating aspects of my job.

(Hi, admin tasks! Hi, juggling separate sets of report review points from senior staff that contradict each other!)

There will always be days when I will find myself sorely tempted to sign up to a sugar daddy matchmaking service and spend the rest of my days as a lady of leisure. But still: I’m not going to complain too much.

Promise.

And I’m not going to get complacent either.

I’ll keep writing. Always.

This is my new mantra for the year: Sleep is overrated. Kill yourself at work, go to yoga, then come home and work some more on all your other fun stuff.

Ulp.

I’d like to think that 2012 is the year that everything starts coming together for me. This shift in perspective is one teeny tiny step towards that: appreciate more, complain less, and work my damn butt off.

I’m back at home, bitches. Back home and melting in this godawful Melbourne heat and ALL OF THE TRAMS WITH NO AIR-CONDITIONING.

All together now: “I MISS SAN FRANCISCO, DAMMIT.”

Having said that, it’s nice to be back in my apartment. It’s nice to know that I’m going to be sleeping in my own bed tonight. It’s nice to be able to zone out while taking public transport, because I know exactly where I’m going and I know exactly where this tram is going. It’s nice to know that I’ll be seeing my friends very soon.

What’s not so nice is logging on and checking all of the work e-mails (118 in total, only 20 of which were necessary and important), and discovering that I’ve sort of been left holding the [redacted client name] baby.

What’s also not so nice is the very thought of wearing corporate clothes in this fucking heat.

Kill me, please. Can I go back on vacation again?

And in other news: 

I bought groceries today. Groceries that require actual cooking. Which, you know, I hadn’t been doing any of until I got to New York and fixed a pasta dinner for myself, Elaine and Zak one night. (Trader Joe’s, I love you and your turkey bacon. That is all.) In any case, that was my first time cooking in about six months or so. Turns out depression leads to not wanting to expend the effort to fix something to eat or, sometimes, not wanting to eat at all. Who knew?

Hint: NOT ME. So I was continually bashing myself for something that was totally normal given the circumstances (“Eating out all the time is SO expensive. This is SO frivolous. You should be saving, you idiot, what is wrong with you?!”), and Doritos and chocolate chip cookies totally count as balanced meals when you’re depressed.

Just, um, don’t let it go on for too long. RECOGNISE WHEN TO SEEK HELP.

Anyway.

That’s all going to change this year. You know, because it’s a new year! And because I know that this trip has changed me for the better! Don’t ask me how – I have no idea; I couldn’t even begin to tell you how. I can feel it though. I started sensing the shift after a couple of days in New York, and this sense of change, of transformation, only grew stronger as the days went by, and I moved on to San Francisco and Los Angeles and Hong Kong.

I just think it’ll be a while before I fully understand  and am able to articulate what it is that’s changed.

However:

Here’s one thing that’s changed (and granted, it’s a tiny one, a teeny shift in perspective): I know now that I was completely and utterly wrong about being alone in this world.

You see, I used to keep saying this to myself, and to anyone who cared to listen. I’m on my own now. Family’s gone, the boyfriend’s gone. There is no safety net now; you’re on your own, kiddo. Better tidy up your life. BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO SAFETY NET, FOR YOU ARE ENTIRELY ALONE IN THIS WORLD.

(Say hello to my Brain Robots. Shush, Brain Robots.)

But then it hit me during this trip that this is absolutely untrue. How could it be true when I keep getting e-mails and tweets and text messages from my friends, telling me to have a blast in the States, to let them know how I’m doing?

My friends missed me while I was gone.

And then today, I walk into my apartment after a whole month away, and found this:

Chocolate chip cookies! Aw, Jillybean.

My immediate reaction was this: “How could I have EVER thought that I was alone in this world?”

Which, you know, is a nice change from my usual melodramatics.

So basically, no more “I am alone in this world” nonsense. Because I’m not.

And on a completely unrelated note, here’s a somewhat more tangible change: 

I actually only wanted a treatment and fringe trim today – my last splurge for a VERY long while, given I, um, totally overspent on this trip, and will soon be dipping into my meager savings and paying my credit card off in full for ALL of the travel expenses, fuuuuuck – but I don’t know, I think Michael the Hair God misheard me and next thing I knew, I was getting a full-blown trim.

Which is fine, really. I tend to let Michael do whatever the hell he wants with my hair, and it always works out.

Like so:

Windblown effect achieved by sitting right next to the fan, because it is really fucking hot right now, people.

I don’t know, I just sort of felt the need to do something semi-drastic before reality truly hits tomorrow (read: I’m going in to the office tomorrow). I couldn’t chop my hair off, because one of my superficial resolutions for this year (what, you don’t have any?) was to grow my hair out, and so a shaggy little fringe it was.

(The other superficial resolutions: wear eyeliner, and deny my Melbournian identity and wear less black.)

Although, given the heat out there? I’m mostly going to be wearing it like this, I think.

I actually hate having my hair in my face. Why do I always ask for a fringe again? I mean, smack me, seriously. I am so dumb, sometimes.

And in conclusion:

I don’t actually have a point with this post. I’m working on maybe 3 hours of sleep here. So there’s that.

I’m writing this from Alex’s bed in Hong Kong, but Alex isn’t here – work forced him to Jakarta at the last minute, which negates the entire point of this two-day transit in Hong Kong. It was a little bit heartbreaking to walk into his apartment and inhale his familiar scent of cigarettes and cologne yesterday, knowing that we wouldn’t be sitting around that night, drinking and talking. I miss talking to him, dammit.

Not that I didn’t end up having fun in Hong Kong – I’m now convinced that when you find yourself thinking, “I really don’t want to be here”, you’ll tend to end up having a blast in the end. And I did. Said blast involved finally figuring out how to smoke things (shisha, in this case, relax!), bottles of wine, tequila shots, then attempting to sober up on spring rolls and a lone fish finger.

And then we ended up in a karaoke joint. I totally nailed ‘You Belong With Me’ by Taylor Swift, high-ish notes and all. I also have a weird desire to watch Armageddon now, after two (TWO) rounds of ‘I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing’ by Aerosmith. Look, that wasn’t my doing, but I guess I’ll go with it. I’m a team player, you know.

You missed out, Alex.

Anyway.

I’ll be on a flight back to Melbourne in roughly 12 hours.

I want/don’t want to go home.

I am really very glad that I found Holly Burn’s blog, and I am really very glad that she put together a handy little guide to San Francisco that is, shall we say, very much skewed towards all of the food and all of the booze. I went to Bite for lunch today, after a stroll through Huntington Park and Grace Cathedral (where I thought a lot of thoughts about organised religion and the lack thereof in my own life), and oh dear God, the Gouda Good sandwich is very good indeed. Har har.

But no, seriously, it really is very good. Rotisserie chicken, gouda and – to paraphrase Holly – a peppercorn sauce made from crack cocaine itself.

Oh, look, I just made myself hungry again.

The Ferry Building

I’ve decided that, if I were a San Franciscan, my ideal first date would be to meet at the Ferry Building and spend some time together eating all the food in the sun, while looking out at the Bay. That place is ridiculous – how anyone can go there for the first time and not be paralysed by all the options is beyond me.

Yes, I was totally paralysed by all the options the first time I went there. I mean, this is where all the food lives! And I went on a farmer’s market day too (Thursday – also Tuesdays and Saturdays), which just made the dilemma worse – OH MY GOD ALL OF THE FOOD.

Totally worth a second visit. Which is me basically saying that yes, I’m going to be found there tomorrow. How early is too early to have oysters and wine?

(Screw it, I’m on vacation – it is NEVER too early for oysters and wine)

Red Door Cafe

The guy behind me in the line for Sunday brunch (who happened to be good friends with the owner of Red Door Cafe) summed it up perfectly (although I’m paraphrasing here – look, the coffee hadn’t kicked in yet at that point):

“This is such a San Francisco experience. Only in San Francisco, baby.”

Here’s how it works: you’ll get there, and you’ll have to wait in line for a table (don’t block the pavement though, or you’ll get run over by cranky old people). It doesn’t matter how early you arrive – the place only seats about 15 people, and you WILL have to queue. I turned up maybe 15-20 minutes after it opened, and I still had to stand in line for an hour. While holding a topless baby doll in one hand, and a jack o’ lantern-shaped mug of coffee in the other.

Yeah.

Oh, and while you’re waiting in line? The owner will interview you to decide whether or not you’re worth serving – and if you’re not, then he will totally turn you away. No, really. It’s awesome. HE is awesome, and fabulous and goddamn, honey, can we trade asses? Because you could bounce a quarter off his ass, which he’d shown off to perfection in a pair of short shorts. Which reminds me: I also want to trade legs with him. Anyway, yes, he’ll interview you, and baby, you’d better be nice/interesting/gorgeous/funny if you’d like to get in.

Basically, don’t forget to bring your sense of humour and adventure when you go to Red Door Cafe.

I managed to get in by telling him about what I’d done in the wee hours of New Year’s Day (no, I’m not telling YOU). Oh, and I was there alone, so there was that. As he put it, ”Are you alone, honey? Oh, I’ll take care of you. I can’t turn a single girl away, you’ve got enough drama going on already.”

Um. He’s not wrong, I guess. See: FEELS ALL THE DAMN FEELINGS, ALL OF THE TIME.

Ooh, that reminds me: the words “Honey, I don’t need to smoke pot to feel, I already feel all the damn feelings WITHOUT it!” may or may not have also come out of my mouth that morning.

Anyway. He sat me with a very pretty 14 year old girl who’d been left to her own devices that morning (“My mom’s still asleep, and my sister’s out somewhere with her friends, and I was really hungry, so I just hopped on a bus and came here.”) As it turns out, she and I are kindred spirits – her favourite thing to do in a new city is to eat her way through it.

And yes, eating with a 14 year old who’d JUST started high school last fall? Way to make me feel old. I have to give her credit for being able to hold a conversation with a 26 year old though. She was a sweet thing.

Oh, and the food? AMAZING. I had the Mexidilla (I think that’s what it was called), and it was a party in my mouth. Well worth the one hour wait.

Also, the owner gives you a hug when you leave. I really liked that.

Foreign Cinema/Tartine/Bi-Rite Creamery/Mission Cheese

Look, you know what, I’m not even going to try – just go to the Mission district and, well, eat your way through it. Just go. I can’t even describe it. Seriously.

And in conclusion: 

If anyone asks where all my money went on this trip, the answer is “My stomach.”