Waiting in the queue has become a feature. We will start our signposting here.

"I'm working really hard now so that I can be happy at 45."

I laughed into my bun bo hue in the little Vietnamese joint out in far east Woolwich, but the two girls just stared at me blankly.

The British Chinese guy was serious. And I was beginning to resent them for taking me away from my book and the chance to get carnal with my hot carbs. I had already gotten myself over the earlier salvo from them: "We felt bad you were eating alone."

Gee, thanks.

It was a scenario where I was mostly perplexed at the gulf between us culturally despite appearances to the contrary. I value achievement and striving and all the other good nuggets, but waiting to be happy one glorious day seems a recipe to miss out on a whole lot of living. And from their end of things, I was the one wasting my life, my law degree, and when one girl asked my underachieving slacker self whether my parents approved of working for a charity, I called for my bill before answering.

I like to think I'm making good decisions, and it's Adventure Time all the time.

I loved just wandering the canal mazes of Amsterdam in search of Indonesian food. And this was after three days of slowly making my way up the northern Dutch cities, from the Hague to Noordwijk, Leiden, Lisse, and Haarlem. 

Lord, the Haarlem train station was gorgeous. Racing up the stairs through a light drizzle to get to a giant set of silhouetted arches, I couldn't believe I live in Europe. 

I think I repeat this fact to myself at least once a week since I still don't quite believe it yet. 

Wandering tulip fields by Lisse, mmhmm.

The little black moleskine I kept jotting notes in was somehow made less hipster/precious by the fact that we had won it from BeBe Sweetbriar, and it has Kill Your Darlings on it. 

Or is it more?

The reggae in Dampkring was too much, and I definitely lost something with the stoned cat on that orange & pink circus train of a decorative theme. It only took two days and I could see why the Dutch are a cheery people. 

Meeting Talia in Amsterdam was surreal, and I'm so glad we did it.

Incidentally, singing "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey at karaoke while accompanied by five ukelele players has made me realize how you really can't always fake it until you make it. 

Lesson learned. 

In the midst of gorging and unsure why it's happening

I won a three-course meal for four at Honky Tonk. My smiley fellow diners and I had such truckloads of American food. The thing that gets me here is that the winning was from writing a review of a different night where I endlessly consumed buffalo wings. London is ridiculous, where one night I'll be watching people faint as a girl with no hands picks up her father's severed hand with her teeth, having tea and buttered scones at a church cemetery, dancing 'til 3 am in the biggest bear club in the world, or boozing with barristers-to-be in a hall built with wood from a ship of the Spanish Armada. And that's just in the last month.

I do finally feel like I live here now though. It's funny how quickly life here became the new normal, but I'm still enjoying the poop out of it. 

And my flatmate just made me an amazing Greek salad with warmed feta chunklets. Nom nom. Perfect for a hot London evening.

I'm going to Norway next week! It was hard to say no when I spotted £39 flights to Oslo. I'll be sleeping on a train from Oslo to Bergen, riding a boat through a fjord, and hopefully not spending all of my monies on the pricey pricey Norwegian food. I'll give myself bonus points if I can track down some lutefisk: pungent stockfish preserved in lye.

(Title of this post was posted at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam where you wait in line. Meditation kouan?)

So much wabi-sabi (侘寂), but the Awesome Machine keeps ejecting new widgets.

Tunnel on my walk from Bermondsey station to my flat

I've decided I can't do pub trivia here until I've been sufficiently sponge-like about my complete lack of English/British history and pop culture. Yelp trivia night with a team of Dutch, American, Spanish ex pats was only saved by the Welshman who seemed to answer everything. "Which gate in London commemorates troops dying at the Battle of Ypres?"

I don't even know how to pronounce Ypres.

It's been two weeks since I last posted, and that seems like a good amount of time between grabbing adventure by the handfuls and jotting down these notes for my future jollies.

View of the Thames from Clifford Chance

I got to play my usual role of underdressed public interest lawyer at a BigLaw event, meaning I pretend to be a vacuum cleaner that specializes in appetizers both cold and hot. Hey, my salary doesn't pay for me to have tuna tartare in adorable mini-waffle cones on my own dime.

Is it just me or do all law firms have similar heft and views?

I can't walk in the general vicinity of Shoreditch and Brick Lane without thinking about whether I can fit a salted beef beigel in me. Something about that unctuous fatty meat with a smear of mustard, gherkin, and the bag already turning translucent with nutrients when the overworked ladies hand it to you. Wilton's Music Hall was gorgeous, but what pub isn't suffused with old timesy charm? That night ended at The Bridge literally under a bridge, and it felt like an eastern European brothel, but assuredly a high class one.

I was in bed by 1 am like an old person while most of our group stayed out until 4 am. Lord, I would have died.

Pão de queijo before I took 2nd place!

Temple innards smelled so good!

I took second place at the London Signature Dish Competition, though I suspect I did as well as I did because of my recipe writing since none of us actually had to cook anything at the event. Also, milking the recent arrival sparkle for all it is worth before it fades like the glamour it is. Bought myself a snazzy Superdry duffel coat just in time for a spot o' drizzle, and walked out of the mall accompanied by a marching band.

It at least got me out to Wembley, which unshockingly revealed that all suburban sprawl with Ikea as oasis is the same around the world. Of course there is a grand Hindu temple out in the sticks. Shri Swaminarayan Mandir and your tasty nag champa incense, I've not spent such a restful hour shuffling around in my socks in a while.

V&A dining hall, though the food was not quite as splendorous

The Victoria & Albert museum dwarfs my comprehension of what exhibitions should be like, and after three hours, I think I only skimmed through a third of its offerings. Such a sheer immensity of stuff, though I suppose this is because Empire.

That seems to usually be the answer: Empire.

Zoned out from the V&A, we of course stopped into a nearby pub for a pint before escaping to Sherpherd's Bush. Dharma and Lu popped me into Harrod's to gawk at the naff-ity (I can't even use my new terms right) of a Princess Di statue as done by the Vegas Luxor crew, and then it was straight into a sugar and carb coma of Syrian sweets & mint tea, smorgasbord of meats and spreads. I also plan to singlehandedly introduce Ru Paul's drag race to English gays. Prepare yourselves.

Babylon in High Kensington was ridiculous, with Salome and I exiting the lift to immediate coctails, platters of fresh seafood, risotto, cassis cocktails. And I even left with little fingerless gloves as the five-man band sang and played Lady Gaga.

There's a theme here, since the next day was more drinking, though this time on the tax payer's dime since it was in the House of Commons. A pint of Guinness, steak & kidney pie, and a side veggie cost me less than a fiver, I believe. Definitely coming back to watch some parliamentary action, even if the security team gave me so much shit for not taking my belt off and for carrying a dangerous combination lock. Why do they have machine guns by the way?

It took me a little wander by Great Portland Street to find Pall Mall Barbers, but the cluster of people outside with alcoholic iced tea was an easy totem once close. I was taken down steep stairs into an alcove, offered a manicure for one hand. Can't tell the difference but girls seem to be able to, so I have one pretty hand, one with messed up climbing nails. Right when I was starting to get shaggy and contemplating growing it out to be a hip Asian (not really), I also picked up a voucher for a free haircut, so this will be the fanciest cut I've had in at least a decade.

Yakima Red afterwards with Ben, with cresting waves of fried balls of macaroni, chicken wings. Late night chats, and then I'm up at 3 am reading Half of a Yellow Sun since I can't fall asleep.

Finally made it to Kernel Brewery for the clusterfuck of hipsters under the Bermondsey tunnels. So many huge beards, and the kind of hipness that makes you think the place is a really posh soup kitchen for alcoholics. Export Stout was delicious, so Citra on the menu next time. Fresh sausage roll handed over with bloody change from the butcher, perfect flakiness over a girthy round of fresh porky pork.

I loved the five hours of gays playing board games in Central Station, a pub with a hidden rooftop patio, speed-putting on colorful hairties on our fingers. I should have realized the Cards Against Humanity here would be the UK edition, so an interesting experience playing cards with no idea why they're offensive, and I'm still figuring out the subtleties of British humor. After a closing trio of Avalon games, I spotted a laksa joint, and filled myself post haste with plenty of spicy coconut milk carbs. Tempted myself with a picture of 9 and 3/4 Harry Potter time, but King's Cross will always be there.

I can check Natural History Museum off my list after blasting through it with Zorah. Harkirit joined us for Hyde Park picnic, and we were starving by this point, so Sainsbury was raided.

Shamelessly had a giant chicken tikka with an equally massive steak pastry pie. Actually, no shame, no shame. Few hours of wan sun, mockery of the chair rental civil servant, and before falling into the inanity of Speaker's Corner, we grabbed a pint for the road at the Greene King.

I can now say I spent a whole night just eating endless little baskets of chicken wings, arranged in increasing order of spiciness. Not sure I would usually take the trip out to Hackney for Randy's Wing Bar pop-up in The Star, but the freeness and sociality of Yelp beckoned, and it's a rather lovely neighborhood.

Apocalypse wings made people claw their eyes and run for the windows, so I'm glad I only nibbled and broke the skin. My Scoville threshold is RIGHT there, and I can only think of Thailand as having ever ravaged me for that.

Probably my fifth glass of sparkly sparkles at this point.

Copa de Cava was an endless spree of Spanish sparkling wine. And by endless, I mean there were fifty of us, and four waiters kept pouring eight types of cava over and over whenever they saw empty flute glasses.

Cava, meet face. Face, meet cava.

The big green olives and jamón ibérico really didn't soak up much of it, and yet I didn't wake up wanting Mummy. I already want more of that smoked octopus.

Anna and I just after high school in 2004 (left); Anna and I this past Wednesday (2014)

I hadn't seen Anna in ten years since economics leadership camp (woo, nerdy apex!) as she pointed out, and sure, the first thing we decided to do now that we both live in London is to put on masks and wander an immersive play set in a four-story abandoned post office. The Drowned Man is totally worth the price, and there's nothing more lovely than wading through sand dunes and being in a trailer in the forest while you're indoors. Gave me Burning Man nostalgia palpitations. That and all the actors are very much on the sunny side of attractive. I may or may not have watched a scene twice that involved wet shirt changes in front of a panoply of rusty mirrors.

And somehow there was a surprise four-day weekend, and even while ill, I went to a 16-person Pakistani dinner, albeit with the sorriest samosas. Tesco wines, and a spicy biryani later, I'm really getting into a Greek beatbox dubstep duo at the Castle before I realize I really can't track them down later because it'd be embarrassing to listen to it.

Won another set of play tickets, so youth theatre time with Ade at Digital Ghosts/Children of the Revolution. Then it was time for circus cabaret with Kitty Bang Bang at the Hippodrome Casino off Leicester Square, but not before an amazing exchange with an Australian aerialist with ten-pack abs. I had a ringmaster drag queen with perfect legs yell at me, a Russian ballerino rub make-up on me, and then I was dodging drunk tourists to get on any bus that would take me south of the Thames.

Morning recovery in East Ham for Kerala cuisine at Thiru Anathapuram with Julia & Paolo, and that whole fish, dosa, and butter chicken totally made my day. Hour-long chat with Kenyan lady before catnapping and buying my own set of home weights. Somehow I've lost five pounds with all the walking around?

Weekend ended with me museum'd out from the British Museum (how much gorgeous stuff can you fit in there?). And I was a little kid again with all the Egyptian mummies.

A little girl threw giant handfuls of cherry blossoms at me on my block, screamed, "How is this all so fun?!"

I know, girl, I know. 

"Have been unavoidably detained by the world. Expect us when you see us."

(Title is a closing quote from Gaiman's excellent faerie yarn Stardust)

I've found my neighborhood pub, and it goes by the handle Simon the Tanner. Cozy little free house that apparently also does pub trivia on Tuesdays, live piano on Wednesdays. And the beers are crafty and cheap, which made me feel so much better after the awful £££ city pubs by work, only frequented by bankers in bespoken suits. I did end up party fouling by toppling my pint at the bartender, but she took it in good stride. "Come back here and clean it up. I'm way too pregnant for that." I haven't been on my hands and knees in the back of a bar before, so *check that list?



I pretend I'm a literate kitty flopped on my windowsill with a paperback, watching the orange storm clouds eat the city, discount (£1.50!) shrimp & rocket sandwich from Sainsbury in hand. I just managed to beat the drizzle coming in after a day of wandering the Tate Modern. For a country that gets inundated so often, it's strange how crappy the umbrellas are. I tried out a few at Argos: two popped off upon opening and one bit my finger. Ow, and I guess I'll have to bring back some Yankee parasols in June.

Not actually the Mondrian I saw, but I'm also not a plastic figurine person.

Is it strange that Piet Mondrian now makes me want colorful cake? I spent a few minutes just staring at a half-room in the Tate full of his pieces and gnawing on a pear.

Froze my tuckus off outside St. Paul's trying to find a way in, cajoling and ninja-ing to no avail. I ended up sheltering inside the cafe to warm up a bit, chatted up a nice Dutch couple with cutest twin girls ever.

You're not allowed to take pictures here, so I'm not sure how this happened.

Chilly outside St. Paul's

I lazed around in the big sunbeam that toasts my room in the morning until around 1 pm before hopping on a double decker towards the National Gallery. Westminster really is gorgeous, and every shaggy head on the bus kinda shifts to the left a significant number of degrees when you cruise past the English minaret.My lovely flatmate threw me a housewarming where the centerpiece was a big pot of feijoada, farofa, chouriço de sangue, with plenty of hot sauce and orange wedges. Also, brigadeiro and a hillock of tiramisu for dessert. With one actual Brit at the party and the rest of us from all over the place, we verged on the edge of it being a Racism Rally, but the heavy lawyer count did mean people who like to bicker for sport. And smoke. Our kitchen was a tobacco rally, and gusts of it made me think of lung cancer from the living room.

I got off early since I was so excited, and realized that I was just in time for evensong, which is apparently an hour-long mass that's all choral all the time. More importantly, it gets you free access inside this cavern of wonders (not even kidding), though you do sit through an Anglican sermon on Zionism. Otherwise, visits inside Westminster Abbey will run you about $30 USD, and there ain't even Disneyland rides inside. Tombs upon ornate tombs, and the buttresses just keep going and going. The National Gallery paled in comparison, sorry Van Gough and Seurrat.

Chinatown was disappointing, though I suspect its location just off Leicester Square accounts for all the "Oriental Food!" signage and how every restaurant serves gooey battered protein. I did find a noodle house filled with fellow Chinese folk for some 刀削麵 (handmade knife-cut noodles) with a big pot of chili oil to spice up the beef stew. Toddled my way back to Bermondsey while catching another glimpse of Westminster during Golden Hour.

This city is growing on me.

I now see the appeal of fish & chips and consequently want to stop by every chippie I walk by. Why in the world do American places serve Styrofoam sticks in place of half a codfish? Drown me in malt vinegar, and yes, god yes, to mushy peas with mint. My first hit of this fish crack managed to take the edge of the worst human rights circle jerk I've ever had to bear witness to, so there's that. I hate audience questions that are monologues with a lilt. Doesn't quite masquerade the shit poor analysis as an interrogative.

Glad I made it to the Gay Geeks meet-up after a day of reading all about alien conspiracies in Australia, such that I no longer want to believe. Mulder, I don't know how you keep up your little green men quest-energy. No visible sign outside Retro Bar, so I let a small Scottish beardo chat me up for a while until I saw people slinking upstairs with a purpose. I keep getting told how friendly Americans are, and it's rather lovely realizing how far I've come from uni times when I basically couldn't hold up a conversation if my life depended on it. Now I'm more than willing to hold you down and talk your ears off. Also strange to get splashed as the American rather than as Chinese, though that does sound right.

Worked from home on Friday upon waking up with a pulsing head cold, and I must say, blanket forts and some tea and PB&J crumpets work wonders. Banged out a few writing projects for work, and by nightfall, I was bushy-tailed again for weekend shenanigans. 

Glad I was rested since I circled London on foot from about 10 am to 9 pm like touristy sojourns are my other job. The Hunterian museum is ridiculous, and inside the Royal College of Surgeons, every nasty thing that can happen to our squishy fleshbodies is on display, and I don't think I can move on from the shelf of mangled testicles and placentas. Sir John Soane's house was a good next stop, and there is so much I would steal from that place (hello, MI5), namely that 3D-printed pitcher involving a bee, shells, and a tortoise (that they actually scanned as it pattered around alive). Friendliest guidese on each floor, and I wanted to use all the Roman geegaws as climbing holds from the basement with the sarcophagus to the Shakespeare niche. The mustard-colored sitting room will be mine one day, along with the Italian otter who wore a piss-colored jumper to match. He and I became hopelessly lost in the house, but we bungled our way out without the £5 map. Relief fist bump farewell, and then I was off to Lincoln's Inn Fields for some mellow sunshine and translucently pale menfolk. Dolores Park this is not, but I did spot some gay beach-level leering sightlines (Quis custodiet ipsos custodes indeed?).

A redhead barista handed me a giant slice of orange polenta cake as I was sleepwalking out of the park, so hello free food is always a bargain. There are definitely little tranches of London that disorient me into thinking I'm in the Mission, and this little cafe off the park definitely has the chalkboard menu and beardy tatted look down pat. Lunch was at Bone Daddies, where I got dropkicked into a wall of pork bone broth so rich that it was like piggy custard hiding noodles. The nitamago egg halves, mm, I don't think I'll ever get sick of them. Currently thinking about whether you could make an egg salad sandwich with 'em. Be nice to add that to my shortlist of things to schlep to dinner parties.

And why would you pay £17 to see trains at the transit museum? 

Sleepy garden time, but once the daytime heat steamed off, I dashed into Gosh! for some Tom Gauld-loving. Berwick street is lovely, and I don't even own a record player, but these stores have such musical presence that I couldn't not walk in. Snagged a poster or two from the usual discard bin, so my tiny Bermondsey nest is looking more and more bower-birded for mates & mates. Ended the evening at the Barbican for a surrealist Italian play (Le voci di dentro) with Ade. Surtitles and not speaking Italian kinda suck for appreciating dark comedy, but post-war Italy and the human condition yada yada. Were eight curtain calls really necessary? Jugging Hare for some fruity beers, and then Vauxhall for the night. So jealous of massive chamber-rooms filled with gin, though I'm still liking how close I am to work and groceries. 

Hungover and walloped by time springing forward an hour, I basically just put my face into some fried eggs & rye toast with raspberry jam before even thinking about going out for a run. Really missing rockclambering, but I want my middle digit to be totally healed before I mangle it in crimps again at the Arch. In the meanwhile, I'm pushupping and crunching like I'm getting ready for a knockdown prison fight, or it's that I want to gain about five muscle-y pounds again.

Currently planning on a five-day Netherlands trip in April to meet Talia (and mayhaps Tristan) in Amsterdam, what is this life?!

Inspector Sands, kindly report to the control room.

Street next to where I work in Aldgate.

Apparently if you hear a reference to "Inspector Sands" while on the Tube, something awful has happened.

After a bit more than a week in London, I've gotten used to navigating relative to the Thames river. With my brain's aversion to learning geography (and math...s), I've been actively trying to remember street names, reciting them in the morning to myself as I walk towards Tower Bridge in the fog, egg, ham, and kale sandwich in hand. Everything is historic, everything dates back hundreds (if not a thousand) of years, and there's no reason why that crumbly wall over there doesn't date back to Roman times.

I don't think I'll get sick of this view on my wak to work.

The flight over the great blue seas felt quick, though I stayed awake almost the whole time watching a hobbit fight an overly-talkative dragon, beardy folk singer croon, and Jared Leto sell HIV meds. Border Agency gave me no trouble except to shit on the job I hadn't even started yet because terrorism. "You won't get any of my money," she huffed & puffed as she gave me back my passport.

My first meal here was Lebanese lamb kebab with mint tea in a cute glass, at a bustling restaurant on a street corner by the shopping district, women in midnight hijab wandering down the street with handbags and clutching children. I don't think I've been in a more diverse city, and I suppose that's why you leave the Home Bubbleworld, to realize even more starkly how San Francisco just comes in shades of Asian and white. Here, Asian doesn't even include me in most minds since it's usually images of Bangladeshis, Indians, etc.

Regent's Park - so much greenery!

Just an elementary school, so don't put this in your church fatigue box.

Paddington Bear, just chillaxing.

I remember months ago, it was disorienting to see through the interwebs old classmates becoming Supreme Court clerks. My gut reaction was to comment, "At least the Stanford brand name is doing something for someone." And I liked David's response: "Kevin, when was the last time you couldn't do something you wanted?" Which is true, and I suppose for public interest kids, there aren't really metrics for how well you're doing or whether you're headed in an upward direction. As long as I'm still ambulating forward in metaphor and enjoying the view & eats, I'm going to count it as a win.

And work here is indeed lovely, vague, and inspiring in alternating hours, and there's a delivery of fresh fruit every morning, people angling to snag a banana before the box devolves into just a few sad kiwis that I end up executing by mouth in the afternoon. I'm told to be like Briar rabbit, though I'm actively reviewing which patch of thorns to end up in, no tar baby in sight. Juggling balls, revealing corporate complicity: not such bad mandates.

I'm also on a quest to have lunch in a different little garden every day.

Where I ate lunch today. Either a church that was bombed in World War 2 or it was a Diablo 3 set. You decide.

My boss takes me out to lunch on the first day to a restaurant that would fit right into the Ferry Building next to Slanted Door, rustic wood tables next to floor-to-ceiling windows peering out onto a cobbled lane of cotton candy cherry blossoms. And then the second day there's boeuf bourguignon by the quay along the St. Katherine's docks.

I got excited thinking that each restaurant specializes in pudding, until I realize that it refers to all desserts.

NOODLES! I made them way too spicy, but had to stay the course.

Cronuts everywhere, so SF, watch out.

As you know, I like feeding my face, so a lot of what I notice in my daily life here flows into that. How the lemons are labeled cheerily as perfect for Pancake Day (apparently the English eat their flapjacks with lemon and sugar?). Kale isn't popular yet so only £1 for a kilo of the ruffles of greeny goodness, pineapple muesli from the co-operative food, everyone offering to make everyone else tea every ten minutes. Pop-up stalls by the water and apparently cloned at each borough market: baccalau, chicken peri peri, chorizo curry, earl grey macaron. And there's cake all the time because why not and it's even in the office manual for pastry culture to be encouraged.

My living room table where the magic happens

I'm in a perfect little flat in Bermondsey, right by a huge supermarket, just a quick two mile walk from work across one of London's biggest tourist attractions and looking down the Thames towards the other two of the Shard and London Bridge. It's an eighth of the size for twice the money, but it's a new game, new rules.

I'm meeting people, recreating a social network here. There was a United Nations of churrascaria through my flatmate: Turks, Greek, Georgians, Brazilian, and me. "Me duele la cara de ser tan guapo" somehow stuck in my head the next morning, along with the trough of charred meats that kept coming and coming on metal swords until we all had meat sweats.

Weird dreams about imprinting secrets onto tablets like skyscrapers that create transpirable text when they get dunked into tubs of molten gold. That 7D zombie ride from months ago was involved, when we crashed our Jeep, shot some innocent white folks (anyone notice that there aren't really minorities in shooting games?). Jet lag hasn't really hassled me, though I think my meal times are still off.

I'm spending my weekends just walking and walking, my first Saturday here bussing over to Greenwich, fascinated by the Royal Observatory's collection of decorative clocks, tourists swarming across the Prime Meridian, waiting on polite old British folks to not be in my picture of spiraling Tulip Stairs at the Queen's old crib. I was delighted to find Cantonese speakers at Tai Won Mein, and they basically rewarded my ordering in Chinese with as many condiments as I wanted. Holy shit that was a lot of chili oil. Sunday was strolling by the Camden docks, winding through horse tunnel markets, thinking that Cyber Dog should just go ahead and pass out Ecstasy before you enter the store, listening to sad-eyed Irish boys strum breakup songs.

After thinking that I was so proud of sneaking into the Malaysian embassy canteen (strangely on point with the lost airplane zipping through Malaysian airspace unseen, but that reference is too soon. #offensive), £3 for nasi rendang with grilled fish on the side, sambal, plenty of kecap manis drizzled atop, and an iced milo to wash it down.

Alright, my chicken adobo is done. Dinner time!

Bits and bobs before leaving on a jetplane

Finally at the airport now, waiting for my flight to Heathrow to start life in London. It finally hit me that I was leaving around two days ago, and it's just been me feeling nauseous about each goodbye, and the circle keeps shrinking with each meal until finally I'm walking David to Montgomery, hugging Mom, and then Lincoln & Dad right before the checkpoint at SFO. I'm excited about London and about working, but at the same time, it's scary leaving a place where I feel very loved.

The visa process took a long time, but I'm so thankful that I had the extra three months to spend with all the people I care about in the Bay Area. I've just been jotting down memories throughout (so bear with me for this blog dump essentially before London blogging begins in earnest). I know that while London is a perfect place to get caught up with exciting adventures, there will be evenings when I wish I could just call up Talia and laugh over Ethiopian food at Addis, or weekends that I would have spent just wandering around the Mission with David & Chris.

RAWRRRRR.

Memories like little nuggets, like buying fresh sayoong (egg puffs with an accent swinging up and arcing into the distance Yooooong!) with Mom in Chinatown. Me pointing them out to her through the bakery display and she just as excited says, "Should we get some?" Not a question at all since we had both walked into the Red A Bakery while we were talking for the sake of throwing off the Diet Resolution Police. This year, guys, I'll eat better. After buying dessert before lunch, we sit down to Hainan chicken rice, oily ginger moistening and scallions lightening the pale chicken colored a chrysanthemum yellow that had been dunked over and over in boiling water so that the flesh would cook perfectly while the skin stayed taut and tight. Then it was bathed in icewater to capture that moment.

The won ton noodles came and each morsel displaced its own sea of rich chicken broth, a soup so embued with flavor that it is a dense cappucino color with a slight particulate churn when you swish the noodles with chopsticks. A sprinkle of green onion origami loops and a few droplets of neon orange chili oil and it is ready to be shared. We slurp in silence for a few minutes, Mom wipes her mouth with a chicken-scented napkin, smiles with satisfaction, yet saying as if it were part of the ritual, "Still not quite like Hong Kong's noodles."

Nothing ever tastes as good as homemade noodles made by a sad older man with a wedge instead of a crotch. Well, or nostalgia. We are seated tucked into the back of the Hong Kong diner, a cha chaang taang, a common longhouse of ex pats from the fragrant harbor. David and I down the reheated sayung with some Duvel later, the golden banana scent washing down well with sugared and fried. Gorgeous runs to Locust and then Arguello streets, dodging baby carriages and nodding to other runners. Stretching in Grace Cathedral, colored streamers raining down over the sanctuary.

There were so many Sundays in the past six months where our sunscreen smells like summer and Dolores Park. Clare's sandwiches, armadillo Thai iced tea boba with almond milk at Boba Guys, walking through Dolores Park, past a bouncy house, smell of Tartine bread with cheese atop bubbling over us as we squeeze past the people in line for a fresh loaf. Warm toasted baguette filled with velvety roast beef, dabbed with horseradish mayo and dunked for a few seconds more than necessary in a bowl of au jus. Rabbit carved into the side.

The sandwich shop owner (the eponymous Clare?) asking if she can photograph the blue-eyed baby for a community page, and the little boy is smiling already in a sunshine grin, the Dad of course agreeing. And the punk gays with the pint-sized bulldog begging for food get photographed too in their squeeze-your-cheeks-snookums preciousness.

We don't get a picture, and it's not the either of us cares. There's just a brief flash of "What if we owned a tropical macaw and were the kind of insufferable hipsters who would take it to the neighborhood sandwich joint?" Our pearly scraggle teeth would be in a grin on the community page in an alternate but just as gentle universe.

Like walking through David's screen door in high excitement that we still had our half-sandwiches from earlier at lunch. Like Island Lodge Time (ILT) where Enlightened is actually a dramatic reenactment of Snowden story.

And final meal = clam ramen at Ramen Izakaya Goku with a side of some tears.

Lots to treasure, and it's comforting to know that it's all going to be there when I get back.

And speaking of send-offs, Talia did a ridiculously amazing job: