San Francisco: Day 3

Merely twenty minutes from downtown San Francisco, across the iconic Golden Gate Bridge, an idyllic redwood forest exists—a land beyond time. Through the first Spanish colonization, the feverish California Gold Rush, the ravages of the San Francisco earthquake and fire, and massive immigration, the redwoods have stood in stately tranquility.

I wasn’t so sure how tranquil the forest would be…hundreds of cars spilled outside the parking lot and onto the road near the forest. It was a sizable trek just to get from the parked cars to the entrance of the park. However, as I stepped into the forest, I was dumbfounded by the silence. Tourists spoke with muffled voices. Not a brazen bird dared to sing. Nary a chipmunk chattered. Even the wind stood still, awed by the ancient giants. Here and there, shafts of sunlight penetrated the branches, lending the colossal tree trunks and ferns below a spotlight of veneration. Remarkably, this forest is nestled among sinuous, barren mountain slopes.

A little more than two miles from the forest is Muir Beach. Here, waves crash against large boulders that are more majestic than any museum sculpture. The rocks and tidal pools offer a treasure trove of discoveries for any curious explorer. Amorphous squishies jiggle to the touch, while crusty barnacles are firmly unyielding. Purple and orange starfish cling tenaciously to the rocks, while crabs scuttle hurriedly into the wet sand.

I climbed the rocks and felt the power of the ocean crashing below. I walked along the shimmering, wet beach. Time passed as I watched the sparkling, salt-and-pepper sand trickle slowly through my fingers like an hourglass. The ocean continuously lapped the shore, as timeless as the redwoods, until even the sun surrendered to the infinity and slipped beneath the water.

San Francisco: Day 2

Riding a bicycle is arguably the best way to see San Francisco. Even if you are able to navigate your car through a seething maelstrom of pedestrians, bicyclists, and motorists, finding a parking spot is akin to Ponce de Leon’s futile quest to find the fountain of youth. On a bicycle, you can whiz past cars belching impatiently in stopped traffic and into grassy, sun-dappled parks infused with the scents of wet earth, leaves, and happiness. You can lock your bicycle onto a convenient rack while looking with smug pity at the hapless motorist trying to squeeze into a tiny parking space two inches longer than the length of his car, unaware that no parking is allowed in that spot between the hours of 2-6 pm on sunny days beginning with the letter “S.” Of course, the bicyclist must struggle up hills that would make a Sherpa catch his breath and avoid collisions with hurtling cars…but then, if bicycling were that easy, the bicycle lane would become too congested.

I started off on foot in the pristine, sunny morning. When I reached Golden Gate Park, I was overwhelmed by its sheer magnitude and looked up the nearest bike shop on my phone. With my new ride, I zoomed past stately trees, manicured gardens, a white-gabled conservatory, and even an enormous Dutch windmill before reaching the Pacific Ocean.

I slipped between the dunes and pushed my bike to the hard-packed sand near the water. Undeterred by the frigid temperature, dogs dashed into the crashing waves in pursuit of driftwood sticks. Surfers in wetsuits bobbed in the water before scrambling to catch an opportune wave cresting in foamy white.

Leaving the beach, I found a cliff-side trail clinging to the rocky coast that offered stunning views of the deep-blue bay and mountains beyond. In the hazy distance, the Golden Gate Bridge spanned the water. I decided that was where I would go next: across the bridge.

It took a lot of effort…scaling hills, carrying my bike up flights of stairs, making my way toward the famous landmark always waiting like a mirage just beyond my reach. Baffled by a confusing detour, I nearly gave up…but, finally, I was there. Triumphant, I rode across, suspended in scarlet between the brilliant blue of the sky and the somber blue of the ocean. I considered riding in the mountain highlands beyond, but I was too tired.

I hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink since breakfast. A little bakery yielded a glass of water and a chocolate torte that tasted like a dream. Exhausted, I could barely lift a protesting finger when an Asian schoolgirl tried to snatch my bike…

San Francisco: Day 1

I’m in San Francisco now! I flew out on one of those huge planes with seven seats across...I know that bigger ones exist, but to my eyes, it was the biggest plane I have ever experienced. And I humbly announce that I had the best seat on the plane! There was so much leg-room, I couldn't even touch the seat in front of me. There was a leg rest, and my seat reclined all the way back so I was practically laying down! I was wondering...this is such a great seat, why isn't everyone fighting over it? And then, I realized...my seat was right next to the toilet. But it totally didn't bother me…in fact, the frequent flushing was not too much unlike the soothing watery sounds people purchase to help them sleep.

After a luxurious nap, I found myself among the pedestrians and pigeons on the crowded streets of San Francisco. Everything is a little outlandish here. On the way to Chinatown, my attention was drawn to a pigeon with very hairy/feathery feet. I had never seen a pigeon with such astounding feet before! But then, as I was noticing the feet of other pigeons in the flock, I saw that another one of them had only one foot! It hobbled along awkwardly on a stub and one good foot. I was so awed by that bird’s bravery that I almost cried.

I thought I could follow the Chinese to Chinatown, but the problem was, there were Chinese people in every direction I looked! So many! But I found Chinatown with a map and eventually arrived, after climbing over hills under the distant gaze of numerous skyscrapers. Here, the stores are filled to the brim with crazy souvenirs and Chinese paraphernalia...each store is trying to outdo the next in bright displays and brilliant colors I didn't even know existed. It was as if a Crayola crayon box had spilled over, melted into various shapes and forms, and then was covered in glue and sparkles before receiving the final stamp of approval: "Made in China." Souvenir shoppers dream of this. I usually don't fall in that category, but I'll admit that I, too, mesmerized by the shining lights, bought a panda hat...and a back massager...and a pair of chopsticks topped by a rubber bunny. I also snagged some sushi from some miniature boats floating on a man-made river.

A few streets over from this brilliant bazaar, the white people vanished completely. I found myself in the middle of the real Chinatown, surrounded by Chinese people purchasing slabs of fish and exotic vegetables from open-air storefronts. A group of white-haired Chinese guys huddled in a noisy pack, and I peered over their shoulders to see a pair of them engaged in a rowdy game of Chinese checkers. I was caught up in a tide of Chinese ladies thronging small markets at the end of the day to haggle for leftover fruits and vegetables...a panda hat floating among a sea of black heads.

However conspicuous, my hat was very popular with a large white parrot in a Chinese pet store. He stared, wide-eyed, at the panda on my head, and then squawked "hello." When I bowed politely in return and said "hello," the parrot took advantage of the panda bowing closer and pecked the panda with his hooked beak. I really don't whether that was a loving peck on the panda's fat cheek or a nasty insult.

Now I'm laying luxuriantly in bed in a little apartment, a cozy comforter chasing away the draft coming in from the windows. It's a nice little room atop a restaurant below. I even have a nice little balcony. At first, I wasn't sure if the room also included a toilet. For some unknown reason, the toilet is in a little closet by itself, while the sink and shower are in another little closet all together. Funny...but it's great!

I suppose now I've sufficiently taken advantage of the two hours I have gained in time from California to Alabama...I'll venture to the common area downstairs, have some Cheerios, and see what adventures the day holds…

Sarah's Key

The Holocaust is a tragic chapter in history that has been the setting of many historical novels…tales of heroism and triumph in the most desperate of circumstances. Sarah’s Key adds yet another volume to this plethoric collection. Yet, this book provides a strikingly unexpected setting for Jewish genocide: Vichy France. Suppressed for decades, the unspoken yet undeniable events of this dark past are unveiled and we discover the devastating effects of secrets.

The narrative alternates between the story of Julia Jarmond, a modern-day American woman married into the posh Tezac family in Paris, and Sarah Starzynski, a 10-year-old Jewish girl who is caught with her family in the maelstrom of the Holocaust in Vichy France. Immediately, the story tangles us in webs of secrecy. Sarah is bewildered by her parents’ hushed conversations, worried expressions, and cryptic response to her questions about why she must wear a yellow star. When Julia begins investigation for a journal article in commemoration of Vel’ de’Hiv, the round-up and extermination of Jewish families in Vichy France, she meets unexpected opposition. The secrets of Julia and Sarah’s lives ultimately shape their destiny.

Julia uncovers a part of the past never documented in history textbooks and barely acknowledged by the French people. On July 17, 1942, over 13,000 Jewish families were rounded up by the French police and penned like animals for several days before being moved to a nearby internment camp and eventually being shipped off to Auschwitz. This entire operation was code named Opération Vent printanier ("Operation Spring Breeze"). There were virtually no survivors. Except for an unobtrusive street marker, there was no acknowledgement that this atrocity had ever happened. The witnesses were either silenced by death, shame, or intentional disregard. Julia relentlessly pursued the story, although many doubted the value of uncovering old wounds of the past. Even those who had suffered the most warned her, “The truth is harder than ignorance…Sometimes it’s better not to know.”

Surprisingly, Julia’s father-in-law, the epitome of the elegant, unruffled French gentleman, holds a secret linking his family to a Jewish family that was rounded up in the Vel’ de’Hiv. All his life, he has been haunted by the devastated face of a little girl named Sarah who returned to what was her home to find her brother. Although he carefully guarded this secret, he was relieved when the secret was discovered by his determined American daughter-in-law. Their shared secret shattered the wall of aloofness between them, and the two formed an unlikely alliance to make amends for the past.

Sarah, the little Jewish girl, survived the massacre by escaping the interment camp. The only survivor of her family, Sarah flees from her past and attempts to bury it completely in a new life and new identity in the United States. Sarah locks her past inside herself and carries the key alone…the key that by her own hand sealed her brother’s fate. By chance, Sarah’s key and a handwritten note discovered after her death by suicide finally reveal the reason of her inner devastation. She writes, “I know now my scars will never heal. No one will ever know.”

Unlike Julia, who struggled to bring the truth to light, no matter how difficult; Sarah suppressed her secrets. Julia found liberation and helped bring justice; Sarah found depression and brought sadness to her family through suicide.

Secrets are inherently interwoven in the fabric of our lives—a cloak that we use to protect ourselves from cold, judgmental eyes; a bandage wrapping an old wound. Secrets preserve the sanctity of our souls and define the closeness of a relationship. But secrets also have a dark side—a disguise that we wear to deceive others; a makeshift patch concealing a festering sore so that it cannot heal. Each of us must have someone to confide in; someone to trust.

Each one of us has a Pandora’s box of secrets…the good, the bad, the ugly. Only in opening the box will we find healing and hope.

To whom will you give the key?

A Joy Forever

Rising and falling like the natural cadence of breathing, the music came to life in our hands. My sister and I hadn’t played a piano duet together in over a year. The music swelled with the fullness that only two simultaneous players can bring, our fingers dancing in intricate choreography. Every now and then, the dance stumbled to a halt.“You have to move your hand for me to reach that note…let’s practice to get the ritardando together…don’t you think we reached pianissimo too soon in the previous section? …okay, let’s play the whole piece from the top.”

And away we went, reading both the music and each other’s minds.

As we played, I could hear another voice in my mind: the voice of Mrs. Kasman, our ensemble teacher in college.

“Jessica, use the full weight of your hand on those base notes…reach deeply for the full sound!” I could see Mrs. Kasman’s gesture the desired movement, her long blonde ponytail swaying with her energetic movement.

“No, no, no…Jessica, connect your fingers—you are not playing legato!” Mrs. Kasman’s capable hand demonstrated perfect form; her forehead wrinkled in thought as she penciled in the correct fingering.

“Girls, girls…this part is not together!” Her Russian accent rolled mournfully over her words, as if they could somehow enfold the music of her motherland and protect it from our hapless hands. Her steel blue eyes widened with earnest solemnity, invoking centuries of Russian artistic expression and willing its import to fall upon our shoulders.

Remembering, my fingers gradually found their accustomed places on the keyboard, as if meeting an old friend. Although initially hesitant, the melody began to flow in a natural conversation: old statements, shy evasion, charming diversion, witty repartee. Although scripted, the conversation is never the same twice; creating increasingly beautiful moments of musical expression. Memories of the past inspire the music of the present to achieve even greater artistry in the future.

That must be what makes music timeless.


“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.” –John Keats

Born Free

My mother’s voice was tense with worry when I answered the phone. “Shona jumped out of the second story window and we can’t find her anywhere.”

Everything around me went silent. The autumn leaves rustled noiselessly against a backdrop of empty blue. Cars swept past in vacuous exhaust. People walked by me, their lips moving in conversations that I did not hear. My world stopped in that instant, though the universe around me seemed still reeling with mute inertia.

“I’m on my way,” I heard my voice say, as I snapped back into a world I didn’t recognize…a world without Shona, my sweet kitty. All at once, I thought of the ways she makes me smile…

Her rough tongue licking my face, a persistent alarm clock that can infiltrate any blanket.

Her jumping on my unsuspecting back whenever I bend over.

Her scooping each kibble out of her food bowl and chasing it with abandon across the floor.

Her running to greet me, signaling her happiness with her upright, stubby tail.

Her soft warm body sharing my pillow, purring in sheer contentment.

Her paw gently reaching out to touch my face.

Now, Shona had vanished. It couldn’t be…it wouldn’t be.

I raced home and ventured into the woods surrounding our house, calling Shona’s name. Almost immediately, my mom exclaimed, “I hear her!”

Sure enough, Shona answered my call with her characteristic meow. Her pert little gray face appeared from the woods, her tail jauntily upright. She came to me, but danced just beyond my reach, as if jumping out of second story windows and sylvan wandering was the adventure de jour that she was reluctant to end. I scooped her up in my arms anyway, just to feel the grateful reality of her soft fur. I wanted to hold her close and never let her go.

Yet, I felt Shona’s desire to pull away and continue her afternoon of adventure. Perhaps the same mysterious, magical wind that made the autumn leaves swirl in a kaleidoscope of color brought back to life the wild instincts inherited from her feral mother. Perhaps it was just the beauty of this resplendent fall day that aroused her natural curiosity. But my little kitty was intoxicated by freedom, naively oblivious to the dangers lurking in this outside world. She has only sparred with my mother’s houseplant and hunted sparkly toys dancing across the plush carpet. What does she know of coyotes, foxes, feral cats, and other unsavory characters roaming about at large? How can she fend for herself? I was torn between Shona’s evident desire for freedom and my desire to protect her from all harm—the ageless dilemma of every parent.

I decided not to keep her shut up indoors, safe but suppressed. Nor did I stand teary-eyed with her now-empty harness, watching my tiny kitty venture into the great beyond, accompanied by the stirring strains of “Born Free.”

I simply kissed Shona on the nose and placed her on the ground.

“Let’s go exploring…together.”

The Kitten with the Stubby Tail

I never thought I would fall for a dumb cat. I have always been convinced that a cat should possess an aloofness that can only originate from an unequivocal conviction of feline superiority. A cat is to be admired and adored. She instills you with humble gratitude by bestowing favors, such as the privilege to scratch her chin or share her pillow. Little did I know that a scrawny kitten with a stubby tail and simple mind would entirely redefine my ideals.

She was born on a cold, rainy day to a feral cat who had no idea of how to be a mother. However, fate smiled upon her and her sister—they were rescued and adopted into a new litter of kittens. Their new mother had a total of seven kittens, including the foundlings, but she was capable and caring. Suckling her large family, she was the very picture of motherhood bliss.

I watched the kittens blindly cuddle against the warmth of their mother. I was there when their eyelids began to open, revealing sapphire eyes that gazed upon the new world with both fear and wonder. I laughed as they began to explore on wobbly, hesitant legs and fondly held them in my lap when they grew tired. Most of all, I observed as their distinct personalities developed.

From the beginning, I knew Stefan was a boy, a boisterous orange tabby who was self-confident but aggressively affectionate. Skittish, insecure, and a bit socially maladjusted, Shadow liked to play alone and nursed long after all the other kittens were weaned. Happy was full of vivacious personality and joy of life, loving nothing better than to play and explore. Also especially fond with her mother and kind to all, she was entirely flawless. Then, there was Shona.

She was a runt in every sense of the word. One of the foundlings, she was a week younger than her natural-born siblings. The first time I saw her, I could hold her in the palm of my hand. She was scrawny with scraggly gray hair, and the first thing I noticed was her tail…it was about half the length of a normal tail. But even more noticeable than her stubby tail was her lack of intellectual prowess. While her siblings clambered pell-mell around the room, Shona sat daydreaming in an empty food bowl. When the other kittens practiced various pouncing schemes, Shona sat mesmerized in my lap, pawing repetitively at my shiny necklace. I knew she had “special needs,” but I gradually began to realize just how special she is.

Shona always scrambled onto my lap, forming a bond with me instead of her siblings. She would gently paw my fingers and then lick them with childish affection. She took pleasure in the endless wonder of a wiggling finger, and then snuggled up to sleep in the crook of my arm or cradle of my hand. Through eyes of love, I began to see her foibles as her most endearing traits. I realized that I had much to learn from her simplicity, innocent tenderness, and even her daydreams. In the ponderous business of life, we can overlook the value of simple contentment. As we grow wise, we can lose the ingenuous affection that loves without reservation. In conventional practicality, we can forget to dream or not dare to be different.

Shona, you have taught me so much. Each time I hold you and see your charming face, I simply can't believe you are mine!