Today I dropped my sister Erica and her friend Marlies off at the airport where they boarded a plane to the tsunami-ravaged beaches of Phuket, Thailand. For 10 days, they will assist the team of the Yanui Beach Recovery Project, a group of eight volunteers running relief efforts in a small village, and help assess needs for ongoing financial and volunteer support. This is her first-ever trip abroad and it feels like the tables have turned, saying my farewells at the SFO international terminal, sending my sister out into the world with only a backpack. I sit here in her kitchen while my nieces sleep, wondering what awaits her there and what exactly she hopes to achieve, trying to find some balance in my own feelings of helpnessness, pride, apprehension, support and concern.

An update regarding my friend Laura Wales who survived the tsunami in Koh Phi Phi: she's written a first-hand account of her experience on the morning of December 26, 2005 that makes it a little easier to comprehend on a micro level the intense personal tragedies of that day, as well as some reminders of the miracle of human resilience.

die, bleeding heart liberal!

Next to each other in the Lincoln Park Golf Course parking lot:

A slick black 2005 Mercedes convertible; on the bumper:
"A proud member of the reality-based community."

A dented blue early 90s Honda Civic Hatchback; a hand-drawn sign in the back window:
"What if we could replace shock and awe with love and wonder?" (with little hearts and flowers)

After a long bike ride yesterday from my house, along the coast, through Sutro Park, by the newly renovated Cliff House and brand-new Park Chalet Restaurant at the western end of Golden Gate Park, I stopped by Java Beach Cafe for a mocha and a conversation with the most conservative man in San Francisco.

"There are only 55,000 registered Republicans in San Francisco. I'm one of them," says Jack, a 65-year-old retired Merchant Marine who plays golf every day, has traveled to 97 countries and is quick to share with me the details of his exploits with Brazilian, Indian and Thai prostitutes. "These little boys would come to the ship as soon as we arrive and say 'Hey! for $5 I take you to my mother!' and we all think, 'great!' What a life I tell you!" The couple at the next table bury their faces in their respective hands and trigonometry book.

"I make Michael Savage look like a bleeding heart liberal," he proclaims between noshes on a sesame bagel washed down by plain drip coffee. "And what about this Gavin Newsome? He ain't nothin' but a homosexual. And he's got nothin' but lesbians and homosexuals working for him. This city's going to hell." The couple next to us leaves. I smile and nod, careful to avoid revealing my own political proclivities in order to encourage his further candor. Apparently unable to detect my disgust disguised with impassivity or to pin me as a liberal in my biking clothes and helmet, his musings continued until I excused myself to "get home before dark."

"Ha! Looks like I drove off that couple next to us. I did it on purpose, raising my voice just to make sure they heard me. They must be pansy liberals, those two!" Guess that makes three of us.

I’ve never been one to covet hairstyles in magazines or on the heads of Friends stars. In fact, one could argue that I haven’t had a lick of style to my coif since I was 12, save the one time I got an honest to goodness *great* haircut in Washington D.C. in the summer of 1995. That was a feat that has not been reproduced since.

My hairdresser, whose creative drive I’ve stifled during my six or seven previous visits with insistence that she leave it a certain length and not to do “anything drastic,” looked pleased when I granted her full artistic license. This time, I was feeling ballsy. It had been several months since my last cut and then it was only to even up the ragged ends of my post-travel hippy hair prior to a wedding. It’s been 17 years since my hair has been above my shoulders. I figured it was time to let go a little more.

Except for that one school year in 1987 when I depleted my grocer’s supply of Extra Strong Hold Aquanet along with the ozone layer above Australia, I’ve never been one to beat my hair into submission with a host of styling products and heated implements. Waxes, sprays, gels, balms, mousses and pomades promising to control, smooth, straighten, defrizz, shine, gloss, texture or tame my hair befuddle me. I’m more of a ‘wash and go’ kind of girl.

I watched quietly and sipped my Oolong tea as long wet strands of hair hit the floor in quick succession. I winced slightly as she blew it out with a round brush and smoothed down my flyaways with a product she knew I would definitely not buy. I wondered why every hairdresser on earth insists that my hair wants to be straight. I pictured myself with the three arms necessary to recreate what she had done. I felt thankful that my hair grows quickly.

I confess, I am a bit preoccupied with my locks. As a friend once said to me, “Anyone who knows you knows that can’t leave your hair alone.” I demanded that he feel for himself the satisfying sensation of running fingers down a wave that ends in a flippy curl at the end. He agreed. Anyway, I blame my mother for my congenital hair-twirling condition. She had a loose afro of naturally curly hair in which her hand took up near-permanent residence.Those of you who detest this affectation of mine, may you take comfort in the fact that I am now missing the critical flippy bits worth bothering with.

A friend of mine, Laura Wales, was on Ko Phi Phi in Thailand during the tsunami and survived to tell about it. Though I haven't seen her since I returned in August from my own trip to SE Asia, I had heard through friends that she was there on a research project with a group of Stanford MBA students. She and her classmate James Hsu were packing up to leave their bungalow the morning the tsunami hit. After an ordeal it pains me to imagine, she is recovering from a severely injured leg at a hospital in Bangkok. James Hsu is missing and presumed dead.



It's been 17 days since the tsunami hit South Asia. I've purposely avoided reading articles, looking at pictures, watching the news and listening to horror stories about that day. The fact that I was in some of these exact spots where so many people died doing exactly what I was doing mere months ago hits home a little more closely than I care to admit. I'd like to remember those places as they were, and the unforgettable times I had there. It's painful to think that the bungalow I slept in, the restaurant I ate in, the platform I did yoga on, the bar I danced in... all gone. Here is a small photo montage of the places I was that were devastated in the tsunami.

Yesterday my sister and I spent the day at our friend Feather's apartment. She passed away from Ovarian cancer peacefully and with inspiring grace on December 30 with her son and ex-husband (our good friend Will) at her side. A dancer, poet, artist and world traveler, she had many interests and passions and, it has to be said, was a complete packrat. Those of us who knew her well were asked to come to the apartment and choose some of her things as reminders of her to take home. Will had marked some things specifically for us. She'd been all over Asia, so thanks to her, I now have a Tibetan singing prayer bowl, a standing wood prayer wheel, a string of *giant* Tibetan prayer flags and a red mirrored Rajasthani wallhanging. All the things I wanted to buy for myself but didn't, or did, but lost (no shock there people!). It seems strange and yet so right that I should end up with them this way.

Well this is a rather somber post. It's befitting of my mood I suppose as I've been a bit weepy for the last week. The tsunami, Feather's death, watching good friends come and go from my life (had another reluctant goodbye with Don at SFO yesterday) and struggling to make sense of my new life in San Francisco has brought up a lot of emotion for me. I wouldn't say I am normally very emotional, so I've been caught a bit off-guard by how at the surface they seem to be now. I guess I am only human.

Too sleepy to get reflective about 2004 or hypothetical about 2005, so I'll just write about New Year's.



I went to Lake Tahoe with six friends to Angela's rental house on the north shore. On the 30th, we hear reports of heavy snow impeding traffic over the Donner Summit (7239 feet) and sure enough, those of us foolish enough to be in the early departure reconnaissance car are, after nearly three hours of driving, met by an impassable clog of traffic four miles long backed up behind a roadblock. There will be no proceeding anytime that night. Admitting defeat, we turn around and drive back to San Francisco. We call our friends who haven't left the city yet and decide to keep our things packed, wait out the storm, and have dinner and a slumber party at Jason's gorgeous apartment in the new built up part of town near the Giant's stadium. It has crazy views of the city from an angle I've never seen before; there aren't yet many high vantage points down in the former industrial/shipping part of town. I figure it's just a matter of time before these fancy mondo-expensive lofts extend to Hunter's Point.



We leave the next morning to make another attempt at the pass. Those of us in the re-con car arrive at the house to find the entire drive under knee-deep snow. We shovel for hours to make space for the cars and decide it's too complicated to leave again and that we'll make our New Year's party at home. With the availability of oil massages in the sauna, near naked sprints to the outdoor hot tub, an adequate supply of booze, six iPods, good friends in silly outfits, where the hell else would we go? I kissed Stacy and Angela at midnight. Thank god they're both so hot.



Those of us who don't ski or snowboard stayed home during the day when everyone else was out. Tyler worked on a programming project for the food bank, Stacy wrote MBA application essays, Gian read a technical design book. Way to start out 2005, damn strivers. When the snow bunnies returned, I tried my hand at a little teaching and led an impromptu yoga class in the livingroom. I could be good at that I think, but learning the names of some of the asanas might serve me well. "OK, now get into this one..." isn't quite what I was going for.

Tomorrow, Don comes back to visit for a few more days. We had a reluctant goodbye two weeks ago in an Amtrak station at 2:30 AM when I sent him off on his very late train to Vancouver for Christmas and New Year's. I didn't expect to see him again before he disappears from Florida onto a sail boat for a year, so I am well-chuffed (British for "very happy") that he is coming back en route to his next destination, New Orleans.

Body... must... sleep.