The
summer before I moved to San Francisco from little Salt Lake City was the
summer I grew up and fairy tales were no longer just in storybooks. I
experienced lip-swelling kisses, sunset slow dances, and midnight drives that
led to embarrassingly sober car karaoke. As I packed my bags that late August
evening, I reminisced and dreamed about the future, thinking to myself “if
small town Salt Lake’s boys were that good, San Francisco’s would be ten times
better.” This idea was tucked in my back pocket, along with three dollars for
“treats on the plane” from my Grandmother, as I bid my farewells to my friends
and family at gate F8. This irresistible idea seemed to be on their minds too,
because as they were hugging me tightly goodbye, I got more “bring me back a
hottie” and “say hello to those Cali boys,” than “Good luck at art school.”
I
landed at SFO with a camera, oxford shoes, and my heart on my sleeve. I walked
out of the terminal knowing this is where I was meant to be and in just
seventeen minutes, if traffic was good, I would be walking the streets of
downtown admiring my future boyfriends. In the taxi I dreamt of Miguel; the
Spanish foreign exchange student with thick brown curls, who does graphic
design and volunteers his spare time at the troubled youth center on Market
Street. Or maybe his name was Jack. The blonde surfer with an all year round
tan, who has a secret decadent chocolate cake recipe that he makes the first Tuesday
of May, June, and October. No,
that wasn’t it. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Brooklyn based troubled poet
named Dean, who takes walks in the rain without an umbrella and loves tasting
the lattes at a new coffee shop every weekend. Overall, I had this wild idea
that a San Francisco art school would bring big city sophistication with a
creative flare in men choice. Now writing this six months later, my
relationship status set at an obvious SINGLE, I can tell you that there must
have been something other than love in the air of that yellow cab.
On
my first day of class I walked up Taylor Street eager to make new friends, meet
the man of my dreams, and learn a bit of photography (if I wasn’t too
distracted with my future tantalizing love affair). The air was a bit foggy
walking to class, but I could make out a charming boy with dirty blonde hair billowing
in the slight breeze, coming down the hill towards me. There was something lovely
about him that made me want to know more. I paced myself slower so we approached
the building together. His leather shoes stepped to the side as his muscular
arm reached for the door. I inhaled the alluring scent of roses and dark
chocolate as his lips quietly smoothed out the words “after you, beautiful.” I
stepped inside, smiling a playful “thank you.” I acted like an innocent damsel in distress while I was looking
at the lists trying to figure out what room my class was located in. Prince
Charming stepped beside me. As if we were one with each other’s thoughts, our thumbs
lifted up and pointed to the same classroom in the middle of the second board.
It was meant to be. He smiled wide and said “See you there” in a dark enthralling
voice as he walked around the corner. My heart pulsed against my ribs as I
gracefully gilded up the steps to the second floor. I chose a table with an
extra seat for my mysterious new “study-buddy”. When he walked in, without
hesitation, he set his stuff down next to me. I didn’t even notice him sit down
in the folding chair as his large hands grabbed my neck gently. Pushing my blonde
curls behind my ear, he began kissing me passionately like Johnny Depp kissed Juliette
Binoche on the boat in the movie Chocolat.
Before I go on, I should mention that the expectations and
the realties of my love life in San Francisco could not be farther apart. What
was previously mentioned was not a lie, but it wasn’t completely true. On that
first day of school, I really did walk up Taylor Street in the fog, yet the man
I saw in the distance was scrawnier and not so billowed. He did open the door
for me, and I did say “thank you,” but it was as romantic as stepping on gum in
a Bart station. I don’t even think he was wearing leather shoes and he smelled
more of body odor masked with Walgreen’s version of “Old Spice” than anything
in a garden. Although I was the only one who pointed to the class (with my
pointer finger, not my thumb,) he did say he would see me there. If anyone
knows me, they know that I do not glide up stairs. I cannot remember the exact
way I made my way up to the classroom, but I can almost guarantee that I
tripped at least two and half times.
I honestly did think this guy would be my friend, so I sat at that empty
table with that empty seat and eagerly waited for my new “study-buddy”. The
biggest difference from my expectations and the reality was when my new friend
walked in. He immediately set his bag on the teacher’s podium. The first thing
his lips did, was not plant a large kiss on me, but rather they spitted the
words “welcome to PH107, I am your teacher.” Obviously I was a bit mortified.
But I shook it off and dismissed this lack of attention on my first day of class
as the build up to something exciting.
Weeks
passed and I finally met a sweet boy in the cafe. He made the first move,
sitting at my table nervously, striking up conversation, being interested in
everything I had to say. I did not think this could go wrong. As dinner came to
a close, we exchanged phone numbers. The minute I got home I told my roommates
about the cute boy at the café and how we were destine to be married. He text
me later that night saying something sweet like “goodnight” with a few smiley
faces. I thought of him as a gentleman and I dreamt of us going to dinner all
the time and laughing at each other’s jokes. Oh the conversation would never be
weary and he would protect me until days end. In reality, he was the one I
needed protection from. Those simple, little, texts soon turned in to a
constant plea of attention. He would ask me what I was up to, I would tell him
“movie night with the girls,” he would want to know “what movie,” “what girls,”
and “where?” Thoughtful consideration about my where abouts soon reached the
level of ultimate creepiness. I played it off nicely, until he started asking
me to go on walks with him at two in the morning. That was the final straw.
Then
there was the sweet Swedish advertising student who asked me out on a blind
date through my Instagram after flirting with me through comments on my
fantastic iPhone captures. I
dressed up in my cutest casual chic and walked to the restaurant with the world
under my feet. Here was my updated version of Miguel. So what if he wasn’t
Spanish, he was still foreign and he still wanted me. I walked in to find not
only one Swedish gentleman sitting at a table, but two. At first I thought, “hmm
... I can make this work.” A threesome was never really in my vocabulary, but the
idea was tempting now that I was presented with the perfect opportunity and
candidates. I sat down, we exchanged introductions and I immediately fell in
love with both of them. As the meal progressed I was enlightened with the
information that my Instagram lover had a serious fiancé waiting for him back
in his home country and that he was not at all interested in dating me but
rather loved my iPhonography and thought I would make a good friend to help him
with future projects. Oh, and the gorgeous friend he brought along was his
roommate, who created masterpieces with his bare hands because paintbrushes are
overrated. And who loves to cook for his older boyfriend Sam, that also lives
with them.
Sadly,
little upsets to my perfect plan happen more frequently than not. I moved to
San Francisco with the expectations of finding true love in an abundance of
sexy well-dressed men. Instead, my beautiful dream is contrasted with the harsh
reality that I go to very large art school, in a diverse major that seems to be
only filled with girls, and the all of the cute boys, in the entire city, are
either faithfully taken or devotedly gay.
