But, I digress. Part of living in San Francisco is the strange juxtaposition of low income housing and million dollar condos on the same street. What’s not unusual, however, is that on each corner of the block around the Section 8 housing complex is a liquor store.

The one across the street from me is owned by a Muslim.

I found this out the day I moved into my building. It was an unexpectedly hot day in San Francisco and my poor movers were dripping with sweat lugging my furniture up the stairs of my elevator-free apartment building.  My fridge empty and my drinking glasses packed away, I had no choice but to pop into the liquor store to pick up a few bottles of water.

Assalamu Alaykum, sister! I was greeted warmly upon entering the store by the man behind the cash register.

Augh, he’s Muslim? I muttered under my breath before replying “wa alaykum asalaam.”

Is this your store? I asked, while he rang me up. Yes! he replied enthusiastically, not realizing that I was making a mental note to never step foot in there again.

And, I haven’t. Not only have I been on a one woman crusade against the store, I’ve also forbidden my guests from shopping there (of course, both of my parents have broken the embargo — “but we’re out of milk for tea!”). In addition to my girlcott, the owner has been the unfortunate recipient of my cold shoulder. I regularly see him standing outside the store, smoking or shooting the breeze with customers. I either ignore him completely or give him the stink eye–I can’t believe he’s Muslim and selling alcohol to people who live in low incoming housing, I self-righteously think every time I see him.

Despite two years of my attitude, however, he still goes out of his way to smile and nod whenever he sees me. Lately, he’s taken to helping me parallel park (to which I usually, grudgingly, grunt my thanks).

Last night, I came home late, exhausted and frustrated that there was no parking on the street. Instead of driving a few blocks away to find an open space, I circled the block like the po po, hoping something would open up.

And, it did. He was outside his store, smoking and saw me pass by a couple of times. On my third time around, he waved and motioned for me to follow him.  He got into his car and moved it–opening up a space for me to park right in front of my building.

I may not like or agree with the way he makes his living, but I can learn something from him about treating others with compassion and kindness, despite how they might treat you.

Thank you for the Muslim Man Across the Street.

I’m behind on my reading for my upcoming book club meeting (Invisible Man, by Ralph Ellison) but haven’t been able to muster up the energy to read, even on the bus, which is where I usually have the time to get into a book. Instead, I spend my morning and evening commute engrossed in my new favorite iPhone app, the New York Times crossword puzzle, trying to figure out a four letter word for pain in the neck (ache? no).

I was staring at an unfinished puzzle on the bus this evening, when I heard someone yell, “DON’T TOUCH IT!” I looked up to see an elderly woman struggling up the stairs of the bus, lugging a huge suitcase. As she rolled her bag down the aisle, she turned around–a bit abashed–and said to the lady behind her, “I didn’t mean to yell, but I didn’t need help with my bag.” She stopped at the seat in front of me, already occupied by a young man. “Can you move, I need to sit here.” He paused for a second before moving wordlessly to an empty seat in the next row, a mildly irritated look on his face.

I went back to my crossword puzzle (pest? yes!) but the disturbance had broken my concentration. I pulled out my book from my purse, but put it right back in. My brain was fried. I glanced around the bus, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, before looking over the shoulder of the old lady who, by this time, was reading a book that she held about an inch away from her face.

The book was tattered at the corners and yellow post-it notes stuck out from all sides. Clearly, this was an important book. As inconspicuously as I could, I leaned forward in my seat to glance at the title.

Why Men Marry Bitches.

I stifled a giggle and settled back into my seat, but not before my eye caught a valuable bit of advice: “dress a little sexy, but not too revealing.”

Looks like we have our next book club selection. I will definitely put my crossword puzzle down for this one.

Thank you for the Crotchety Old Lady with the Book.

One of the women told us about a dinner she had with some friends earlier in the week, one of whom is a decorator who specializes in redesigning homes incorporating elements of Feng shui. Finding out my friend was single, the decorator advised her to set up a “love corner” in her home. This corner should be cleaned and cleared of “bad energy” and replaced with positive thoughts and flowers–a visualization and physical manifestation of the love you wish to receive. We giggled over the idea and the very San Franciscan nature of the advice, but then threw up our hands and said why not?

I told my parents about the “love corner” over breakfast this morning.  I’m visiting them for the weekend and knew they would appreciate the anecdote, a sign that I’m healing and moving on. As I settled into my post-breakfast routine, sprawling across the floor of the family room with the newspaper and a cup of coffee, my dad headed out for work. I heard the garage door open and a few minutes later, footsteps coming back towards the family room. My dad appeared with a vase filled with a beautiful yellow rose he had just cut from the front garden.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me the rose, “this is for your fung shoe.”

The First Flower in My Love Corner

Thank you for the Old Man with the Rose.

The conference I’m attending has brought together advocates from around the country who are working on combatting racial profiling nationally and in their respective communities. I’ve met an amazingly diverse group of people, ranging from an organizer in Maine who works with local Native American tribes, to a Somali immigrant in Tennessee who works with taxi cab drivers, to a fourth-generation Mexican-American activist in Arizona who has been working, tirelessly, for decades on issues affecting the state’s Latino population.

Much of the conversation over these past few days has been about the new law in Arizona that allows police officers to stop individuals they believe to be undocumented. Our discussions have focused on how this law changes our work as advocates, the frustration and fear within immigrant and minority communities, and what the passage of this law says about the state of race relations in our country.

These conferences always leave me with mixed emotions.

On one hand I’m disheartened by the seemingly long road ahead of us as we continue to work on racial justice issues and the frustratingly simplistic state of our national discourse. One of the attorneys summed it up nicely when she said “the economy is in the shitter and instead of blaming those that got rich off of it–the guy who just bought his third beach house–we’re blaming the guy washing dishes at the back of the restaurant who is paying his taxes and supporting his family.”

On the other hand, I’m inspired by the dedication of my fellow advocates in the movement. Those people who day after day, year after year, continue to press for justice and equality for all, never losing hope that positive change is just around the corner. These are the type of people who have brought about significant civil rights advances in our nation’s history and will be the force behind the good that we have to believe will come. I’m lucky to have the opportunity to meet with them, learn from them, and hope with them.

Thank you for the Advocates in DC.

The only empty chair at the table was the one next to me, so he plopped down and we began awkward small talk. It took me only a few seconds to recognize the reason for his change–he’d suffered a broken heart since I’d seen him last.

As we continued to talk, he opened up on his own. When I asked him what he’d been up to, he said self-improvement–reading, classes, and alone time to reflect. He said he had plenty of time to pursue his new hobbies because he’d quit facebook. He deactivated his profile initially because there were too many reminders of his ex, but when he realized how much free time he now had, he decided not to go back.

This conversation couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. When I broke up with the Young Man at the Comedy Show, I deleted him from my list of friends. It seemed a dramatic, but necessary gesture. Yet, many of his friends are still my own, and seeing their updates and pictures is sometimes a painful reminder that his life no longer includes me.

Then there’s the time suck. I bought a new laptop because I was itching to write, but have used it only to write on facebook walls. I returned from the library last week with a stack of books–the stack is gathering dust on my kitchen table as I spend my time reading status updates and articles that show up in my newsfeed. I have a hundred words to learn for my weekly Arabic class, but instead of flipping through my flashcards, I flip through pictures of people I barely know.

And just like that, I decided to quit.  I gave everyone around the the table my status update–I’m done with facebook! The announcement caused barely a ripple. We’ll see how long this lasts, someone muttered.

I’m giving myself 40 days–isn’t that how long it takes to break a habit?  If, at the end of the 40 days, I feel as though I’m missing out on too much, I’ll reconsider.

In the meantime, I’ll pull out those Arabic flashcards, dive into that stack of books, and visit this blog more often.

Thank you to the Boy with the Broken Heart.

Not having a computer at home is liberating. The hours I would have spent sitting, idly surfing the internet are now filled with more productive endeavors–reading, classes, and studying. I doubt I’ll be getting a new computer any time soon.

So for now, I will jot down my Moroccan memories in a journal, and return to blogging when I can’t take the technological isolation any longer (or when I destroy my iPhone, whichever comes first).

Thank you for my computerless apartment.

For example, the silver lining in having your wedding called off 3 weeks before the scheduled date is that you’re suddenly left with a savings of cash and vacation time–enough to take a spontaneous trip.

Which is exactly what I did.

I got back yesterday from an amazing two week trip to Morocco. The food, the architecture and the rich cultural history of the country were impressive in and of themselves, but it was the People I Met during the course of my trip that left the biggest impression.

A friend suggested that I journal my trip through the lens of this blog, i.e. Moroccan People I Met. I’ve previously blogged about one of these people, whose invitation to visit her beautiful family in Casablanca is what initially motivated me to head overseas.

My vacation posts will come as I slowly get over my jetlag and gather my thoughts. All names and identifying information will be changed, of course, with a few posts password protected as they involve people who proved to me that this really is a small world after all.

I’m blessed to have had the opportunity to end a bittersweet year with this beautiful trip. I’m excited about the new year (decade!) and looking forward to further travels, finding love, and the People I Meet!

Thank you for the People in Morocco.

I hear that soon enough, the pain in my chest will subside and I will be able to look back on this experience with clarity and insight that only time and distance can bring. However, as with most things in my life–my shortlived romance the most recent example–I’m impatient. I want answers now.  But they are not coming–at least, not in the way I want.

They may, however, be coming in the way that I need.  Perhaps this all happened for me to truly appreciate the People I’ve Met. Family and friends who have supported me through my first relationship–at the ripe old age of 30–and who have displayed an extraordinary amount of patience, love and understanding through my first heartbreak.

There’s my mom, who gives unbelievably accurate advice, despite having never dated or been in a relationship with anyone other than my dad. It’s like she could read my mind when she said, “you have nothing to be ashamed of, you did nothing wrong.”

Then there’s my dad–nothing upsets him more than seeing me sad. He hates it so much that he spent an entire weekend trying to drug me with a happy pill. When I told him that grieving over a broken relationship was normal, he stopped the pill pushing and instead sent me a Yahoo news article: “Breakup Recovery 101: 5 Rules You Must Follow!”

My friend NoMoHo, has given me advice throughout this entire ordeal, using her past experiences to help me learn from her mistakes and lessen my heartache. She told me I was brave and strong to walk away from something that wasn’t working, even though doing so made me feel defeated.

The Psychologists of San Diego opened their home to me when I fled the City to get away from anything that reminded me of what would not be. The Dr. Mrs. provides me critical online support all day, everyday, calmly talking me through my mood swings. Sadness to anger to acceptance…back to sadness again.

There’s the Persian of the East Bay, whose own life story of enduring illness and loss with grace and gratitude, humbles and inspires me.  Her husband insisted that I visit them this past weekend so he could tell me—in person and from a man’s perspective—that I’m a catch and that I should hold out for someone who recognizes that enough to work to be with me.

And there are countless others whose prayers, calls, and e-mails could fill up a blog of its own. When things broke off, I kicked myself for having told so many people about the relationship in the first place–just more people, I thought, to whom I now owe an explanation to as to why things didn’t work out. But now I see the wisdom in that too. I may have lost someone I love, but am blessed with a reminder that I’m still surrounded by people who love me.

Thank you for the People I’ve Met.

My old roommate and I ate at Shalimar the night before we moved out. We considered it our neighborhood joint–the guys behind the counter knew our names and placed our regular order right when we walked through the door. We were able to say goodbye and let them know that they wouldn’t be seeing us around anymore because we were leaving the neighborhood. But I often think about all the other people who I used to run into on a daily basis–what are they up to and do they wonder what happened to me?

There was the crosswalk lady with the orange vest in Chinatown, holding up the STOP sign so the little Chinese kids could make it safely onto school grounds without getting plowed over by MUNI bus 30 or cars trying to get through rush hour traffic. The tall, elderly gentleman, who nodded to me each morning as we passed each other on the steep Russian Hill, he effortlessly strolling downhill, me huffing, puffing and sweating my way uphill. Then there was the lady with the dog. She looked a like a typical San Francisco hippy, long graying hair and a messenger bag adorned with peace buttons and patches slung across her chest. She would smile at me as I walked by, patiently waiting for her dog to finish up his morning business.

I unexpectedly saw her in the financial district last week. We were standing kitty-corner from each other at an intersection, waiting for the light to change so we could cross the street. I saw her before she saw me. When she glanced my way, her face lit up–she grinned at me and waved enthusiastically. The look on her face seemed to say, “there you are! I was wondering what happened to you!”

The light changed and we both went our separate ways once again.

Thank you for the Lady with the Dog.

I hope to resume my writing shortly.

In the meantime…

Thank you for the Young Man at the Comedy Show.