Yesterday was my first real day in San Francisco. I felt naked, vulnerable, unsure, excited. Could this be my future home? I had edited on my Tinder profile the night before – “New Yorker thinking about moving here.” Translation – “Someone please sweep me off my feet and give me a reason to move. Be my reason to move here.” After what felt like an hour of half-hearted swiping with many overly generous swipes to the right (ugh), I fell asleep. I woke up at 3am and just lay there, savoring the feeling of nothingness and little obligation. The novelty and comfort of it all. As the sun arose and the birds started chirping around me, Colorado felt further away and NYC even further than that. I thought about my various one-way ticket plans. The one-way ticket I had symbolically booked for the day after 4th of July to Buenos Aires and the somewhat roundtrip ticket I searched for to travel to Vietnam in a week. United had a great deal…but I decided to hold off. I am sort of done with putting a gun to my head and forcing myself to do things I don’t really want to do.
I was still wearing the yoga clothes I had traveled in from CO to SF the night before and slept in because I had been too lazy to change. I considered a wardrobe change but couldn’t muster up the effort. I slipped on some flip flops, opened up Yelp to select coffee shops “open now”, and navigated by Maps following the motion of the blue dot to the red marker. Closer, closer, and in to Ritual Coffee Roasters on Valencia. As well-traveled as I am, I don’t know San Francisco in the slightest. It was a beautiful day. Chilly but the sun shone brightly in a beautiful pre-dawn kind of way.
The coffee shop was all light wood and new and felt so San Francisco even though I don’t even know what that means. A poster of some controversy and justification surrounding their $12 cup of coffee was showcased. As I approached timidly and hopefully across what felt like a vast veranda but was really just a lot more space than NYC would ever afford for coffee counter, the guy in front of me turned around and said “good morning.” There was something so open and warm about his face and approach. Nothing was held back. Everything was genuine. I offered up a greeting and an excuse. “Good morning. I just got here. This is my first day in San Francisco.”
“Congratulations,” he said with emphasis. “Thanks,” I giggled stupidly and smiled. “I mean, welcome. I haven’t had my coffee yet.” “That’s okay. I got what you meant. Me neither.”
After ordering my cold brew, I sort of sidled up to him in an awkward way as I waited for my coffee. Am I supposed to talk to him or not? He asked what I ordered and then gently pointed out that it had been sitting on the counter. Oops. I grabbed it quickly and went to sit down, making a concerted effort not to look up or notice anything. I felt so vulnerable.
He came and sat down next to me. I was texting furiously and rapidly, giving my sister advice on hiking and accommodations in Zion. Finally, I forced myself to put my phone down and create some space and looked over and made eye contact nervously. The conversation flowed from there. He was in uniform. I noticed the “S Moreau” badge. He told me about his French colonial roots on his dad’s side of his family and the French aristocrat background of his mother. The conversation meandered, and I learned that he had been in the military, that he’s always punctual, used to do Cross-fit, and he’s an EMT for the fire department about to be promoted and eventually stationed at a fire house. There had been an arsonist earlier in the day. He reads fiction about Morocco, is an avid traveler, and went to Vietnam. After meeting his Vietnamese family near Hanoi, he bought a motorcycle and traveled down Vietnam using GPS. I told him some things about myself too. Eventually, the uncertainty and tension of wanting to stay and feeling it might be best to depart weighed down on us. Periodically, his radio would echo. The calls and dispatches kept coming in but none for him. I was completely disarmed by him, his blue eyes, his honesty, his manner. I couldn’t breathe, and I hoped he would leave so I wouldn’t feel so stupid. After a bit, he said his goodbyes and met his SFFD co-workers. I am so dumb! I didn’t give him my number or anything.
And then he was back congregating with his peers in uniform. I was so confused. I continued to sit there by myself. Then they were gone. My sister was texting me telling me to write my number down and hand it to him. I couldn’t do it.
Suddenly I looked up and there he was with two glasses of water and a book under his arm. “Would you like a glass of water?” he asked. Nervously, I smiled and accepted. Then he was sitting across from me. We continued to talk about San Francisco, different neighborhoods, the people he had met. I think I told him a lot about myself and my life circumstances too, but somehow, that all seemed ancillary. I wished I were a better version of myself that morning instead of the tired shell I was. No one likes to feel weak.
I got a closer look at him. He was tan, fit, and his blue eyes were so clear. There was a hole in his right ear, a marker of a former piercing. All at once, I wanted to run away with him and run away from him. I twisted my hair and felt my mouth move and my head nod, all the while the voice in my head just telling me to keep it together.
He went to the bathroom, which gave me a much-needed moment’s break to collect myself. It wasn’t long enough because I got up to go once he returned. As I advanced 20 feet, I heard the radio crackle and then my name. He got a call and needed to go. I walked back to the table and then we sort of embraced and a kiss on the cheek, somewhat platonic and French style. Why hadn’t I showered or changed for days???!!! Then he was gone.
I collected my things and walked back to my friend’s sprawling bohemian townhouse on Guerrero a few blocks away. I told her everything. We tried to find him on Facebook, social media, whatever, everything. And not a trace. Craigslist missed connections got refreshed a few times throughout the day. Still nothing. My friend is checking SFFD EMT event schedules. She’s thinking about her EMT connections. We consider joining a biking app, the only internet trace of him we could find. I suggest we call the fire department. It all sounds so desperate, but somehow I feel like it’s the right thing to do. She suggests we call 911 and specifically request his services and presence. She plotted out all the places where she’d seen FD EMT vehicles and told me where I needed to walk to up my chances of re-encountering him.
These are all good ideas, the right ideas in a strange way. If I want to find him, all the information is there in front of me. I know his full name and where he works. But all the information in the world is no substitute for courage. The day before, I had finished reading “Daring Greatly,” a book on vulnerability. That was the only reason why I had let myself enter this space in the first place vs. running and running from moment one. I just need a little more practice to carry it through completely and learn how to truly put myself out there. Self-love and vulnerability are good lessons to learn at age 34. I am trying.
I’m back and Ritual Coffee Roasters, 8:15am, hoping and waiting for him to show up. The window seems to be passing.
Discomfort Woman 