Under the Birch Tree

by Nancy Chadwick

“A condo on Laguna and Sacramento. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yep, I live just a few blocks from there—on Sacramento.”

  We continued talking intermittently throughout the flight, which made the time in the air pass quickly. Of all the seats on this plane, there had been someone from Chicago sitting next to me, going back to San Francisco. I think God had granted me a new friend to engage in conversation, a distraction, and an assurance that everything was going to be okay as I experienced separation anxiety from the only place I’d known.

  The airplane started to descend.

  “Here. This is my phone number.” He handed me a beverage napkin with the scribbled number. “Gimme a call later on. I’d be glad to show you around.” His moustache seemed to wave at me as he smiled.

  Sure, I wanted to go out, but I had just met him. Was that a stupid thing to do? I reasoned it was an innocent gesture by someone who was nice to me.

  Once I was through the jetway, I spotted my new boss, Gayle, in the waiting crowd. We strolled to baggage claim to collect my suite of suitcases and then headed to the car.

  Gayle was in the driver’s seat while my passenger eyes were drawn to the new landscape of bumpy, dry, tanned earth, trying to familiarize myself with an unfamiliar skyline. The experience turned into a what-did-I-get-myself-into feeling. I had no sense of orientation, as my innate compass had always centered on Lake Michigan, which was reliably to the east. Now, a bay and an ocean to the west had taken my lake’s place.

  The whitewashed condo building looked new, and the large lobby was adorned in deep reds, glass, gold, and silver, with a front-desk man officially dressed in uniform and cap. I kept to my boss’s heels, dragging the suitcases I had received as a high school graduation present. It was the first time I’d had a reason to use the complete five-piece set of Diane von Furstenbergs. When we entered the apartment, dirty breakfast dishes were set on the dining room table, and a pair of men’s dress shoes was parked nearby. “Hello. Anyone here?” my boss said. Whoever was living there hadn’t been given notice that another tenant was coming or had chosen to ignore the request to vacate. I chuckled at the unexpected drama as my first introduction to San Francisco. My Chicago self would have panicked at the thought of possibly not having a place to stay and having to find one in an unfamiliar city. Knowing I was not alone but accompanied by my boss reassured me I had a guardian angel who would look after me. I was shown another apartment, uninhabited. It was bigger than my places in Evanston and Pine Grove combined, with a beautiful view of Lafayette Park: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a living and dining room. I was overwhelmed; I was being treated well. The view of the park from my living room window provided my connection to the outside as a reference point where I was not alone in a new city but surrounded by the comfort of other living things.

  I dropped my luggage; grabbed a map of the city, a pen, and a notebook; and headed across the street to join the locals relaxing on the grassy park hill. I sat in a shady spot and recalled how I got here as I looked around at my neighbors enjoying life. I noticed I wasn’t the only one sitting alone. There were others just like me, without a partner. I also recognized what was granting me this filtered shade and protecting me from the California sun—a patch of birch trees. Some were tall and full; others looked like saplings or offshoots of their elders. I was comfortable there, under familiar trees and among single locals. I was off to a good start. Life was truly good.

  I decided to call Tom. “Hi, it’s Nancy. You met me on the plane from Chicago … I think I would like to go out later for dinner, if your offer still stands,” I said.

  “Oh, you bet. Great. I’ll walk over and meet you at your place, and then we’ll walk to dinner; best way to see some of the sights.”

  What a great, unexpected thing.

  We walked, and then we walked more, up and down steep hills from Pacific Heights to North Beach to Coit Tower, weaving through streets teeming with nightlife. I was in good shape, or so I thought, but the hilly hoods of San Francisco were a physical challenge. Fatigue and hunger turned off my sightseeing motivation. It was ten thirty, Chicago time.

  We continued our conversation at Joe’s on Broadway in North Beach over mounds of family-style spaghetti plopped sloppily in oversized bowls. I never thought pasta could taste so good, so comforting, so satisfying. A sated belly reenergized me. I was happy to be in a new place. I wasn’t sure if I would see Tom again, but it didn’t matter.

  I could not have spent my first day and night in any other way. My boss became my first friend, greeting me when I got off the plane, driving me to where I would be staying, and making sure I had a place to be. Tom was my new pal too, showing me around town and being a true companion. They were my first established connections to my new place.

  I had a month to look for an apartment, but I wasn’t prepared to see what a $600 rent payment would get me as I circled ads in the paper. Initially I didn’t panic, but as the weeks passed, an urgent wave rushed through me. Living in a condo, a spacious place across from Lafayette Park with a doorman, too, was not permanent. Free living would not be free much longer; I had to come down in my real estate expectations. I canvassed the city on foot, tracking apartments in the Marina, Pacific Heights, and Cow Hollow; I even took a bus to the Avenues. I knew I needed at least five hundred square feet for my belongings to fit, but I wasn’t prepared for apartments as little as three hundred square feet. How could anyone live in just three hundred square feet? I guess if you wanted to call Telegraph Hill your home, you’d deal with a breadbox for living quarters. The more I walked, the stronger I became. I resolved that I would find a place.

  And the more I walked, the hungrier I got. And I found hunger dominating my senses as the culinary fragrances of San Francisco’s evening specials seeped out of the restaurants and take-out storefronts that dotted every neighborhood. I hadn’t eaten all day that Saturday, and after an exhaustive apartment search on foot, I treated myself to takeout for lunch—or was it an early dinner? I walked up Fillmore and stopped at a small Mexican place for a burrito. This was the biggest, fattest, most stuffed burrito I had ever seen. “I’ll get two dinners out of this. Not bad for eight bucks,” I remarked, as I justified the expenditure. The anticipation of being refueled by the heavy brown sack cradled in my palms spurred my pace back to the condo. I sat on the carpeted living room floor and made a place setting on the cocktail table, pushing aside the neat stacks my cleaning woman had made of the papers, files, and documents that represented my move and my current position in life. Before I realized it, I’d eaten the whole thing. My eyes dripped tears from laughter, then frustration, and finally from a little loneliness as I collapsed on the floor with a belly full of Mexican cuisine, looking up, the only direction I prayed to be going personally and professionally. Oh, ¡Dios mío!

  One day after work during my second week there, I headed out dressed in a Cubs T-shirt and denim shorts in search of a grocery store. But my confidence and my steps came to a halt. I had to ask the doorman for directions. I chuckled at the realization that I had not only a doorman, but also someone who was available to help me find what I was looking for.

  Forty-five minutes later, the air turned colder on my way back from the store. I was anxious to get to the top of the hill and then to turn around and view the fog rolling into the bay. This view revealed that I was not in Chicago anymore.

  During the weekends, I continued my apartment search for blocks—by foot and bus—from the Bay west to the Avenues. When I was about to quit, an availability popped up at the end of Lombard Street, by the Presidio, in Cow Hollow. On Saturday I went to see the place, walking Lombard Street, which was basking in the late afternoon’s sultry sun, the reflections of its whitewashed buildings splashing my face. I stopped to get a lemonade at the corner Walgreens. As I stood to rest, sipping my refreshment, I scanned the street to locate the apartment but could only spot a hotel, a motel, a bar, and a couple of flats. I continued walking. In the last two blocks, whe
n the street turned quiet, veering left just outside the Presidio gates, I lost the sun to shade and found the apartment. A two-story Victorian was set back from the row of flats. The ground-level apartment’s entrance was on the other side of a wooden door. I buzzed, and the young female tenant greeted me.

  “C’mon in … so fast they’re sending people over here. Sorry for the mess. My husband just got reassigned to a new base, and we’ve moved from one big place to a small place, and now we’re moving again,” she said.

  I immediately saw my furniture fitting with room to spare. What a coup! “I’ll take it,” I said. I walked with renewed energy back to the rental office to put down a deposit and the first month’s rent. My savings account had never been so drained. I feared not having enough money to make it, but then I invoked my faith, believing God wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. Just as I thought I was ready to give up for the day and skip the apartment, it all came through, and overwhelming relief hit me. I had a job, and I had an apartment. I was living simply and sparingly, and I loved it. I was grounded with my feet planted, where I would take root and begin to grow.

  I was ready to tell Marvin’s, the moving company, to deliver what I had in storage. They advised me it was going to take about two weeks; two weeks was a long time. I was granted that time to remain in the condo until my belongings were delivered and I was able to move into my new apartment.

  The weeks passed and there was no truck. Finally, a phone call. They’d be there on Friday. After work, I brought a sandwich and a clock radio to fill the deafening silence while I waited. And I waited. They weren’t coming. I scribbled a note on the brown paper bag and left it on the front door. I started walking back to my fancy condo on dark Lombard Street. As I was stopped at the light on Fillmore, I saw Marvin’s in gigantic letters on a big rig barreling down Lombard on the other side of the street headed to my apartment. My walk back was too long; I would have been unable to meet them in time. I had to wait another day.

  I didn’t care. Well, I did, because they had my things. My comfortable familiar would soon be with me when bits of my Chicago home mingled with my new San Francisco home. I was seeing how maybe my connections could be strung together and that disconnections were never truly made. When the truck arrived the next day, I had never been more excited to see my personal possessions. My belongings—my home remnants—looked fresh and clean and new and fit right into their respective rooms. I was together, finally, in a new space, out of storage, surrounded by security that had traveled from afar.

  I kept busy from Friday night to Sunday night with visits to Fredrickson’s Hardware, where I bought paint and shelving for the kitchen. I was overcome with creativity inspired by my new connection. I was the girl who once sat in her walk-in closet as ideas came to me in the comfort of my creative small space. Decades later, my unique place on Lombard Street, a couple blocks from one of the most historical old military bases in the world, spurred inspiration to create a nesting space. I woke up with gratitude. It was mine, surrounding me and saying, “This is your home.”

  Home by definition had changed. Carlisle with my birch buddy had been my home, my first point of reference, where I came from and where I grew up, but it wasn’t my only one. I learned I could have homes in different locations, Lombard Street and the Presidio, with connections to new friends that were happening quickly.

  Once I got my home in order, I was ready to explore my neighborhood, eager to expand my orientation. I wandered my street on weekends and found a few laundromats, a bar, and a restaurant or two. A couple of blocks over on Chestnut Street was the place to go on Saturdays, filled with young people enjoying the social mecca of the Marina. Mathray’s was at the end of the street where traffic dwindled and the bustle settled, and my apartment was nearby. I could tell his shop was open, even before I rounded the corner, because I smelled the delicious, clean aroma of fresh cut flowers and blooming foliage. The full bouquet of flowers and colors made me smile. So many choices! Which bouquet I chose for the week depended on how much money I had left. If I didn’t have any spare money for flowers, I snuck out to the rear of my apartment to a large, overgrown rose bush and clipped some tiny pink blooms. When I placed the snippets in a tiny vase next to my bedside lamp, my place was complete.

  Each weekend I explored farther away from my new apartment and became open to my new world. I hiked in the Presidio, absorbing the scents of the eucalyptus and succumbing to freedom and exploration among the giant redwoods, getting lost in their shadows along narrow paths. A different world churned outside the gates. The glaring sun spotlighted zooming cars and groups of young people walking, shouting, and laughing in animation. I came upon the Palace of Fine Arts, Marina Green, and the Bay. I trekked the Golden Gate Bridge. I wondered if my walking reflected a search for something. I established my footprints, marking my spaces and unearthing my place to be.

  As the weeks and my experiences progressed, my sojourns of daily living traveled a bumpy road. Shopping for groceries and doing laundry was a production in stamina. I would dump my loaded laundry bag into my granny cart, both of which I’d had since my Evanston and Chicago days, and set out to find the cheapest laundromat. Safeway, the grocery store, was even more of a hike. But when I stood at checkout, the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge were in view. The sun blasted through blue sky, and water bobbed, sculpting white peaks. I was amused to think I was standing in a grocery checkout with an awesome view. Those thoughts and a smile remained with me. My new life had a different perspective, which made me realize I was a small entity, a dot somewhere in life’s unending vista of bay, ocean, and hills. It reminded me of my first impression looking at the park across the street from my living room window. I was a mere addition to the complexities of my new expanded world on the park hill. Moving to this new place, so different from the Midwest and Chicago, was a gift because I valued place and me. I had made a new connection. I was connecting with myself.

  My traveling traumas of getting to and from the grocery store and points beyond weren’t really that bad. With my cart in tow, I geared down from a walk to a stroll through the Marina and Moscone Park, stopping to watch a basketball game and then a baseball game in the field across the street. The sun on my face warmed my cheeks to pink while I relaxed on the cool grass and inhaled the bay water, noting the tingle of dampness on my skin. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply to fill my lungs and feed my spirit, stopping time to live in the moment and capture the augmenting sensory sounds of clicking bicycle wheels, the whizzing of inline skaters, and the barking of dogs. How rich and full life really was. I just had to stop and tap into it.

  I had a new life, where I was starting over with new people who would never know my struggles from the past and never come to know the black cloud over my head which dissipated as I headed west. They would never understand that I had moved away from a life that had weighed me down, kept me on a treadmill running fast but getting nowhere. Here I was getting somewhere. I discovered a strength that was good and learned in gracious ways. My carefree spirit was alive, and all I needed to do was to nudge it along, to encourage it.

  Each morning’s three-block walk to the bus stop at the Presidio entrance was a delight as crisp air greeted me with the sun sparkling just over the eucalyptus trees to awaken their scent and the dampness drawing out their fragrance. I could smell the effects of the start to a beautiful day. My jerky ride to work on the number forty-one electric bus—down Union Street and up and over hills—ended a half hour later at Sacramento, where the Embarcadero, an impressive four-tower center, awaited me. My office unit sat in a corner with open views. I never put much value on “a view” until I came to San Francisco, where everyone talked about having “a view” like I talked about owning a car. The fact that I was living surrounded by “a view” was just fine with me.

  Once again, I had discovered a contented balance between being alone and being at ease in my job. Working with eight other colleagues who pitched in as a team created a friend
ly, informal workday that mingled business with fellowship.

  I usually walked home from work, a forty-five-minute or perhaps an hour journey from downtown, to the wharfs, to Ghirardelli Square, through the park, down Chestnut Street with restaurants lit with tiny white lights sparkling around door frames and miniature trees in pots. Money was tight, and I quickly learned how frugal I could be by waiting until six o’clock to get bagels at Noah’s for half price. I relished dinner-making and sat on an only chair that matched a pine folding leaf table, a witness to my life and a holder of items accumulating in autobiography that had traveled with me all the way from Chicago. Remnants held close were from a home far away.

  Whether on foot or jerky bus, I was busy with adventure and discovery, traveling through neighborhoods—Chinatown, North Beach, Pacific Heights, and Cow Hollow. Part of my quest to anchor was to connect with others. I studied my peer group, noticing that most women looked alike with their long hair, thin frames, and denim-and-white clothing. They wore black shoes of various styles, their feet anchoring muscular calves. Sweat pants and sweatshirts were the alternative to casual work attire. Flawless faces were free from makeup, unlike mine. I preferred “petite,” to “short” when referencing my stature, and I thought my stocky legs supporting thick calves were a Midwestern thing. I dressed up for work with what style I possessed, in the simplistic elegance of a dress or a skirt and jacket defined in complementary colors. “You look so very cosmopolitan,” one male coworker told me during my first week on the job. I’m not sure what it meant, but I took it as a compliment.

  Our unit was invited to the bank’s Christmas party, to be celebrated at a nearby restaurant in the Financial District. This was an invitation I gladly accepted as a way to meet more coworkers, especially those working at the home office. I willingly mixed pleasure with possible business opportunities.

  On a slow Friday spring afternoon, I wandered into my coworker’s office. Though Susan and I were single and interested in going out and meeting others our age, we never became good friends. Her offers to go shopping, for a walk, or to sit on the Marina Green for a while were more out of sympathy, I think, as she knew I didn’t have any new friends. She was kind, and I enjoyed her company. Talking with a female friend was comforting.