On my second day in the city, I saw exactly what I’d dreamed of when I pictured going to San Francisco all of those years ago: the San Francisco Bay covered in glittery fog and the Golden Gate Bridge disappearing into the clouds.
I’d never been to the West Coast before– I’d only ever gone up and down the East Coast. Standing on the opposite edge of the continent, I wanted to go to the beach.
After walking the length of the bridge, I decided to hang a left at the beach.
At first, I walked down the path into a wooded hillside towards the water and then decided not to in case I encountered a bear along the way. (It is on their state flag after all).
The view from sunny California
Having told no one where I was going that day, I decided that maybe it was best not to walk down a mountainside alone and instead made it to Marshall’s Beach by taking the road.
I’d packed a swimsuit for my trip without any plans to get anywhere near the freezing cold water in the Pacific Ocean. Since I decided to go to the beach spontaneously, I didn’t have it on me. Instead, I climbed over the rocks and walked barefoot along the shoreline, discovering for myself that the water was in fact numbingly-cold.
Watching the waves crash, I started to get FOMO and wished I had my bathing suit, despite how cold it was. I turned a corner and realized that this was not the type of beach for which you needed a bathing suit.
When Google searching beaches with which to best glimpse the Golden Gate Bridge, none of the websites mentioned that Marshall’s Beach was a clothing-optional beach with a large gay scene.
And I’m not mad about it. I always love a good trip to the beach.
So did I partake in the nude beach experience? Did I adopt a when-in-Rome attitude and plunge naked into the Pacific Ocean? Did I emerge from the water naked with my long, wavy hair blowing in the breeze behind me like a Botticeli painting?
Maybe.
I can tell you that I came out of the excursion with a sunburnt nose and my bad knee even worse than before, having witnessed a few eye-opening things taking place on the sand, but I loved it. A day at the beach is still a day at the beach.
Following that, I ate bao at a chinese restaurant called Bao, which more than lived up to its name, and got a drink at The Buddha Lounge in Chinatown. I 10/10 recommend both.
Day two was down with another adventurous San Francisco day in the books. I was ready to limp around San Francisco for another adventure on my third day in the city.
The Tragic Queen,
Raquel
P.S.: Check out my previous blog post on what my first day in San Francisco was like.
“I left my home in Georgia, headed for the ‘Frisco Bay”
–Otis Redding, Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay
School was out for summer and I was in a mood. The kind of mood where I sit around playing California Dreamin’ on repeat as my semester ramped down because that’s exactly what I was doing: dreaming of California, a place that I’ve never been to but have heard so much about due to the total tonnage of songs dedicated to it. I’d made it through my semester and, I’m not sure if you’ve seen the news lately, but that semester was a little bit more difficult than usual.
Around this time, my metrocard was getting low and the temperature was getting high. I found myself wanting to be in a walkable city with famously mild weather.
Packing only the essentials
All of my friends were back to their corners, jet-setting to their own summer plans. I decided to do something that I’ve been dreaming about for a while:
I booked a flight to San Francisco.
Dressing the part of someone who’d go to the Bay Area
In proper girl-on-a-budget fashion, I made plans to sleep on a friend’s couch and then toggled back and forth between the $120 flights on airlines with shoddy safety records, and 15 hour layovers in the midwest, and the slightly pricier tickets from more reputable airlines.
Prior to actually visiting San Francisco, I envisioned a politically-correct mecca, filled to the brim with the liberally-enlightened. I’d seen the same iconic images as everybody else: picturesque, Victorian houses stacked up and down hilly streets, a blue-burnt sky behind them, and the Golden Gate Bridge silhouetted on the horizon.
What I found instead was a not kid-friendly, gritty and grimy city brushing up against a hypoallergenic tech sector. (The amount of signs I saw advertising for strip joints was actually kind of impressive and made it look like a local delicacy). Each street was elbowing the next, with Lululemon-clad women boarding the bus one minute and Boho-hippies boarding it the next. The bus would then migrate over to the decayed financial sector, which has become more of a homeless sector, having lain dormant since the pandemic.
All of these multitudes and more were compacted onto a tiny peninsula.
I was trying to understand where this “out with the old and in with the new” mentality came from. I read the same articles as you (well, some of you): tech people setting up camp and redefining the city, homelessness populations being the largest in the country and turning into a way of life, and the cost of living skyrocketing to untenable heights, all taking root in San Francisco over the past decade.
I had to lay eyes on this for myself.
You’re probably wondering why I went to San Francisco in the first place. I want to set a novel in San Francisco (don’t ask me why because everybody asks me why and I don’t know why, which would indicate that I make questionable decisions) and felt that I could not tell the story authentically until I took the city by storm myself. I slept on my friend Raj’s couch (This is Raj. Say hi to Raj).
Raj has been my brother’s best friend since they were 2 when I was in utero.
While he went to work, I tooled around town.
I arrived the day after the city held one of its biggest traditions, which had inconceivably included both marathons and raves, so I basically showed up during a city wide hangover. It was like a day at the beach when everything is so calm that the water barely moves.
My first stop was City Lights Bookstore, the indie bookstore where Alan Guinsburg debuted Howl many moons ago. After nearly ending up at a lamp store a few times thanks to my GPS, I arrived at City Lights, a beautiful bookstore that was nearly Alan Guinsburg themed at this point, but didn’t sell any of the hockey romance novels that my mother keeps trying to get me to read. Sad.
From there, I went to see this bay that everyone talks so much about. I saw the Golden Gate Bridge, which is blue at a distance and only red up close. I could see Angel Island and Alcatraz on the horizon beside one another.
I closed out my day at Pier 39, seeing –and smelling– the sea lions.
The sea lions on Pier 39 made me irrationally happy as they spun through the water and then flopped onto the stacks of sea lion bodies on the dock. I enjoyed witnessing the Greco-Roman wrestling matches of the sea lions who’d sardined themselves onto a dock and were now biting and barking at each other.
I started to think that if I were to be reincarnated as any animal, it would not be too bad to come back as a Pier 39 sea lion. I particularly related to the one antisocial sea lion on a different dock who refused to socialize with the other sea lions.
He wasn’t dead. He moved a few times. He was just chilling like he was dead.
I spent much of my first day bumbling around, courtesy of my nonexistent sense of direction. Raj was an excellent tour guide, explaining to me the different socio-political forces at play in San Francisco, the geography of where I was, and the best spots in the city. He actually knew the history of where he was and so could tell me the significance of where I was standing at any given time.
Once I was in San Francisco, I felt like I could feel the city’s character muscling its way to the surface, a character that shuns the very idea of the tech industry being anywhere near Haight Ashbury, the home of free love and public fornication. San Francisco is trying hard to maintain its reputation as the beat-poetry, psychedelic-rock birthplace by trumping its newfound granola-tech-people-with-homeless-encampments-lining-the-streets-reputation.
You’ll be sure to learn my thoughts on how that’s going by the end of this four part saga.
A couple of weeks ago, I ventured back to Sarah Lawrence to watch Alyssa’s final show before she graduated. Those who’ve been keeping up with it will know that my friend Alyssa has been hard at work creating and now promoting her magnum opus album in the SLC music program.
For the event, Alyssa was putting on a real show, the closest thing that an undergrad can have to a Vegas act. Projected behind her was all of the artwork she had for each song and standing beside her for the beginning of each song was one of her friends wearing a dress that she made herself.
Each dress represented the song that she was singing, acting as an extension of her work. I wore a beautiful light green dress that she made for her song Evolution, doing a twirl and a curtsy. Alyssa is probably the only person for whom I would do this.
Alyssa, a true renaissance woman, created the dresses that go with the songs, created the art that goes with the songs, and created all of the songs. This was done in part to promote her new album The Train (all bangers, no skips, swear to god).
People bought her merchandise, also handmade, afterwards. She was charming and graceful in between each song, wishing the crowd a Happy Passover and explaining the inspiration behind the album that she’s been working on for over a year now. The event was a hit with plenty of turn-out and made for the perfect send off to her time at SLC.
The merch
I’ve been watching Alyssa’s music career from the wings since the beginning, first through her performances at Sarah Lawrence and then throughout the city. I’ve heard The Train more times than I can count and can probably sing along when asked. I’ve had some very fun times with this album, as have many other people.
Congratulations to my mega-talented friend on her final performance at Sarah Lawrence. Now, she is on to new things and I’m ready to hear the music that she makes out of all of it.
A couple of weeks ago, the Botanical Garden in Queens was throwing their annual Orchid Party, which promised craft cocktails, live dancing, high fashion, and lots and lots of orchids. Florals in fashion was the theme, as they showcased designer dresses with nature in mind. I dressed for the part, wearing my flower petal jacket, and headed on over.
I had a hard time rustling up any enthusiasm amongst my friends since the last day of the event fell on 4/20. After exhausting everyone in my proverbial rolodex for my admittedly last minute plans, I went it alone.
The event started with drinks and live dance performances set to a mash-up of Prince and even more Prince. If dancing doesn’t work out for these dancers, they could always go into work as contortionists.
On stage with the dancers, there was a runway competition where audience members were asked to strut like they were on a runway and the rest of us had to choose a winner.
After that, I strolled through the conservatory where the rows and rows of orchids were intersected with elaborate floral-themed designer outfits, designed like sculptures in a sculpture garden, and lily pad-filled pools.
The fashion was designed by up-and-coming New York City designers Collina Strada by Hillary Taymour, Dauphinette by Olivia Cheng, and FLWR PSTL by Kristen Alpaugh.
Walking through the conservatory was like walking through a perfume ad. It was very romantic, so naturally I was there all by myself, lubed-up on a margarita and sniffing orchids. Beside the flowers were plaques, explaining the science of the different plant species, making the entire set-up like one part Natural History Museum, one part flower shop, and one part hip hop dance competition.
There was something for everyone to enjoy: fashion, science, dance, and alcohol. I can’t really think of a more blase way to kick off spring than to go to a fashion event and look at flowers while having a drink.
Great news people: I have once again gone to the opera.
Having gone and blogged about it four times, I know that this comes as a shock to you all, but nonetheless I did it.
This time I went with my friend Claire to see Carmen. Even if you haven’t seen Carmen, I can assure you that you have heard the music, as it has one of the most iconic scores of any opera, something that I didn’t know until I was sitting in my seat.
Despite it being a French opera taking place in Spain, The Met decided to set the production in the midwestern United States. I did not expect to see a production of Carmen in which the titular woman was wearing turquoise cowgirl boots and jorts while gyrating against a semi truck, but no judgment.
Perhaps there was some commentary in the sense that the story takes place outside of a gun manufacturing factory and they were commenting on the mass gun deaths in the US and/or the American military industrial complex. Either that or I just put more thought into it than they did.
In the end, the story taking place in the midwest meant that when Carmen dances for her love interest she did so on top of a trash can at a gas station, which was a daring artistic choice.
We then proceeded to witness the most toxic relationship known to man. There was a lot of “I have to be with you,” “I can’t be with you,” “you don’t love me,” “I can never be with you” “I can’t live without you” going on in the story. Then one of them died.
In all honesty, as a chronically single person, that’s what just about a lot of you guys’s relationships look like to me. Carmen holds the record for quickest and most pointless death in an opera.
At least she didn’t sing for half an hour about how she was dying. She didn’t even see it coming.
For the opera, I kept it casual by wearing a floor length ball gown that I purchased at a consignment shop last semester. When I bought it, the sale’s woman to ask what I was buying it for. I answered “the opera.”
She asked, “oh when are you going to the opera?” and I had to admit that I had absolutely no idea.
Sometimes, you have to buy the dress for the event that you have no prospects for. Likewise, I recently purchased a dress for the ballet, but have no idea when I’ll be going. I will keep you posted on how that’s going.
Unfortunately, it would appear that while that conversation was taking place, the sales woman forgot to remove the plastic chip at the bottom of the dress, causing numerous people to stare at it at the Met Opera House. I tried to tell them with my eyes that I did not in fact shoplift my ball gown, but that is hard to communicate visually.
The music was beautiful and so was the singing. Yes, I was occasionally distracted by the juxtaposition of a woman belting it in French, acting sexy against the chain-link fence of a weapons factory, while wearing a lab coat, but I still had a fantastic time at the opera.
A photo shoot I do every year with a friend in order to get a smokin’ hot photo of myself for my blog and holiday card
It was that time of year again, where I take an obnoxious amount of photos of myself for my blog and holiday card and post them for the world to see.
Now, you may have noticed that it is mid-April, but we are just going to ignore that and just enjoy the pictures that I did put on my holiday card, because sometimes, it is hard to get around to posting your royal portrait photos.
Padgett came over for my “royal portrait” photoshoot, bringing with her a special light and her phone. What I wanted this year was to take a picture with my cat– something I assumed wouldn’t be a lofty goal.
I leaned in to take a picture with her. Suspicious of my intentions, she gave chase.
It took us an embarrassingly long amount of time to catch her, which we eventually did by cornering her in my bedroom. The only thing missing was the Benny Hill theme song.
What I was going for:
What I got after cornering my cat:
After still failing to get a decent picture, Calypso darted out of my room. My cat may never forgive me for trying to get a picture with her, despite rescuing her from a 17 cat litter in what I’m pretty sure was a trailer park.
A photo of us when she still trusted me
Otherwise, the shoot was lovely. My face was not behaving, but that’s nothing that a little alcohol couldn’t fix. I’m sure that that’s how the real models do it, anyway.
I changed clothes, I played music, and in the end I got some great pictures, with or without my cat’s cooperation.
Shoutout to Padgett for sacrificing life and limb to lean over my bannister to get a picture of me lying on the floor.
BTS
For the original shoot, I wanted the cover to say Happy Holidays, with a nice respectable photo of myself, and then the back to be a messy jumble to prove why we truly needed to be wished luck in the new year.
Proof that I readbooks sometimes
Instead, I did what I do every year, which was have a nice photo on the front and a 2023 candid shot on the back.
My friend Claire had been Catholic her whole life, although never officially baptized, so to make it official, she was getting baptized, confirmed, and communionized– a full work up– at Notre Dame Cathedral in New York City. I put on my Sunday best, and set off for the Cathedral.
My Sunday best looked like a dress from the show Mad Men. Please ignore all of the stuff in my room. I’m not sure why I posed like thateither
To the untrained eye, a Catholic mass is a bunch of people bobbing up and down in a gymnastics display, because, I suppose, physical exertion shows devotion to God. As a board certified Catholic, I knew when to kneel, cross myself, sit, and stand. No mean feat.
I was familiar, also, with the confirmation process, having been the sponsor for my cousin in Boston, which feels like a very Boston thing to say. She’d chosen Joan of Arc as her patron saint– the patron saint of bad bitches. (And some other stuff probably too)
The officiant of the mass was a bishop who’d served faithfully as UN Ambassador to the Pope for years. He was the Permanent Observer of the Holy See to the United Nations, representing the Vatican to the world.
Anyways, I asked him where the bathroom was.
This was before mass started so I hadn’t yet heard his resume.
His sermon dealt with how lucky we all were to be there in that church, miles away from Russia, Ukraine, and The Holy Land, how we were amongst the most privileged in the world. His point was unclear to me, as I sit here and try to type it out, but my guess is that his point was about how we should recognize this privilege and be grateful for our lives.
Spot the Catholic
Afterwards, we had a big feast at Claire’s house. I was not sure what one gives as a gift for an adult baptism, but I went with a bottle of Prosecco. I was not given a bottle of wine when I was baptized at six months old, though I wouldn’t put it past some of the people in my family.
One day, when I was still too young to wipe the drool off my chin, I was dunked in water in a white dress and everyone around me clapped. Claire joined the church with a bang, with a celebration that she could actually partake in.
So welcome to the club, Claire! There’s about a billion of us.
Out and about on the town one night, I headed downtown to watch my friend Alyssa perform a new set from her upcoming album. This time it was at Berlin, a live music bar in Manhattan, famous for booking fresh talent as part of a “decadent escape into New York City’s Underground.”
For me, it had more Sarah Lawrence people, more alcohol, and, most importantly, a fresh audience to hear Alyssa’s new album, The Train.
Anxious that I would be late after the train got delayed, I hauled ass to the bar and showed up sweaty and panting, prompting the bouncer to tell me, “you’ve got a nice cocaine energy to you.”
I informed him that it was “just my natural energy” and that, lucky me, I get to act this way all the time.
Alyssa hadn’t gone on yet, so when I arrived there was instead a young woman singing a folk song about someone going down on her.
It was an original piece by her.
The lyrics to her next song were something to the effect of “I thought that dating older men would fix me psychologically.”
I believe that it did not work out that way for her.
Alyssa, and her band of fellow Sarah Lawrence-ites, went on shortly thereafter. While they were setting up, I had my second Long Island Iced Tea of the night (I know, shut up) and strangely started to really feel the music.
It was for that reason that I cheered very loudly and shouted only the most intelligent things I could think of.
The next morning, after I swore I’d never drink again (alcohol is a poison, etc.), I thanked Alyssa for another good time watching one of her performances and reuniting with my fellow alumni.
FTC Disclosure: Embedded in the words “The Wildest Sun” at the end of the post is an affiliate link and if you click on it (and purchase the book) I will receive a teeny-tiny commission. Happy reading!
I am back again, with yet another story about a book launch party in the city, making me two for two when it comes to book launches within the same week.
A few days after attending Elizabeth Topp’s book launch at The Corner Bookstore, I went to the launch of my friend Asha Lemmie’s sophomore novel, The Wildest Sun, at Book Club Bar.
Asha and I attend the creative writing MFA program together at Columbia, which is how I know all about her New York Times Bestselling debut Fifty Words For Rain, a novel that has had members of my mother’s book club gushing ever since its release.
For those who’ve never been to Book Club Bar, it is a book bar, where people can drink cocktails while reading books. This would be when my family and friends would say “enough said.” Sitting with a good book while having some wine is what many people dream of, so my friends and I poured one out while listening to Asha explain her genius to the room.
Asha was charming and poised as she answered her editor’s questions, dressed in her fabulous, and signature, pink. Asha’s writing, which I have the privilege of reading more often than you all, deals heavily with “cultural rejection” as she puts it, making for very rich topics to explore. I am currently in the midst of finishing The Wildest Sun, a novel that explores that topic and more, in depth.
We parted ways early in the evening, as Asha was due at NBC news the next morning.
My itinerary has been full of literary events, with hopefully more to come as the year progresses. I will also be making another pilgrimage to NYC Book Club in times to come in order to spend way too much of my money on wine and books.
Aaaand, if you would like to check out The Wildest Sun by Asha Lemmie,click no further:
FTC Disclosure: Embedded in the word “here” at the end of the post is an affiliate link and if you click on it (and purchase the book) I will receive a teeny-tiny commission. Happy reading!
Come one, come all to the Corner Bookstore on 1313 Madison Ave, where I had the great pleasure to attend the book launch party for Elizabeth Topp’s latest novel City People several weeks ago.
Liz is a friend of a friend who was kind enough to tell me about the event, so I stopped by to check out her book release.
Topp is the author of Perfectly Impossible, of which my mom is a fan, and a born-and-bred New Yorker, spending her entire life in the same New York City apartment, thereby making her very well-equipped to write this novel. I have since read City People (check out my 2023 book review post) and can therefore tell you that it is a fantastic little novel about Upper East Side parents vying to have their kids accepted to an elite elementary school, and do so by fighting tooth-and-nail within the confines of their shallow social circle. There is other commentary as well: the trap of the lives these women lead, the trap of being an influencer, affirmative action in applications, and just overall being a woman in this context, but I don’t want to spoil it for you.
I got a copy of my book signed, getting cut off in line by Al Franken (a shameless name drop, I know, but he was there). I purchased a few other books from The Corner Bookstore, which I will be able to read in about five years when I get done reading all of the other books I’ve purchased but have not read yet.
Topp gave a quick speech about how this book came to be and how city people are secretly the best kinds of people. Hard to disagree.
And if her novel sounds like it would appeal to you, be sure to purchase it here
The Tragic Queen,
Raquel
P.S.: Be sure to check out my most recent blog post Drunk Shakespeare
The Tragic Queen 