Mara Sohn's Backstories - The Bold Italic - San Francisco

Fly Girls

Mara Sohn — Wed, 26 May 2010 00:00:10 -0700

“A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” This adage is permanently embedded in my head thanks to Gloria Steinem and a recurrent image I have of a trout riding a fixie down Valencia Street. After an adventure in fly-fishing this past week in our very own backyard, San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, I have simplified this slogan to, "A woman needs a fish."

Male-dominated golf courses are the spaces where contacts are made, deals are brokered, cigars are smoked, and futures are planned. But after an inspirational conversation with avid fly fisherman René de Guzman, senior curator at the Oakland Museum, I learned that the mostly male sport of fly-fishing is also perfect for extreme networking and good times.

Fly-fishing, like golf, is a jovial sport that relies on a beautiful setting, specific gear, and a social atmosphere. Both activities originated in foggy Scotland. I'd argue that the dunes of Scotland are not that far off from the low visibility and cloudy conditions we endure right here near San Francisco's bay. It's the perfect environment, with rod in hand, to crash a boys’ club and pitch one's ideas (Bikini Car Wash!) to prospective venture capitalist types.

I had finally found a way to break through the glass ceiling, or rather, get my feet wet (well, except for the fact that they’d be in waders) – though I'd need to learn how to cast first.

The key to being a good fly fisherwoman is technique, and technique can be taught. I reached out to the pros – Leland Fly Fishing Outfitters is known as one of the best spots in the country to get fly-fishing gear.

When I walked in to Leland I realized I had entered a man’s world; not a woman to be seen. From sexy waders (OK, I lie, there is no such thing) to rods, reels, flies, hats, and books – this place has you covered for all your angling needs. I missed the lunchtime rush, but I could easily picture FiDi execs in their suits heading into Leland to chat over the rod display, or perhaps play a round of pool in Leland’s backroom, the lair. Aha, I had found another secret space where deals could be made.

All of the folks (OK men) that work at Leland are surprisingly young – I’d say in their 20s to 30s and super friendly. Keith showed me around, pointing out the rows and rows of beautiful flies. Ladies, do you remember stepping into Claire’s at the mall for the first time and breathing in all the colors, shapes, and possibilities of the costume jewelry that surrounded you? The fly selection at Leland is no different – magical (plus, the merchandise is less likely to break than a Claire’s earring).

From tiny little pom-poms to pink-feather-duster-looking things, the flies dazzled me, each made from combinations of fur, tinsel, feathers, and Mylar (“flash” in fly-speak). I was tempted to pet them all, but Keith reminded me that they had hooks attached. Oh, right. He also mentioned that Leland’s feather collection is popular with ladies who make their own earrings.

George Revel from Leland enthusiastically responded to my lesson request. George is a three-time National Casting Champion and as Leland’s website states, "The youngest ever casting instructor to be certified by the Federation of Fly Fishers." George is also the vice president of Golden Gate Angling & Casting Club. I’m not sure he’s even of legal drinking age, and he jokingly told me he was 12 to 13 years old, but I know that he’s a good 10 years younger than I am. I doubt he knows who Gloria Steinem is, but that’s OK because he definitely knows how to fish.

I asked George what a required outfit consists of and he responded, “Most will wear waders (waterproof pants) and a rain jacket in colder, wetter climates. In the summer just pull on a pair of board shorts and a T-shirt and you are on your way. Most people will use a wading boot – either felt or rubber soled. They are great for not slipping on river rocks.” You’ll also need a rod, reel, a pair of sunglasses, and some flies.

Fly-fishing rods are much longer than your conventional fishing rods, and according to George, “The length allows you to manipulate the fly on the water to achieve the perfect presentation.” George says at the low end you can go fly-fishing for $100, though many enthusiasts spend thousands and thousands on the best equipment money can buy.

I invited my friend Abbey to join me and headed to the angling ponds in Golden Gate Park, just across from the buffaloes, to meet up with George for our lesson. We entered the park and biked past the Conservatory, the de Young, and Lindley Meadow. When we finally got to the Polo Fields, we saw a sign announcing a competition called "Spey-O-Rama," an international casting festival. "What were we walking into?" I wondered, as we entered an oasis I'd never before seen.

Crystal clear pools, an old wooden clubhouse – and my first experience being around so many men (and a few women) in waders. Participants were waist-high in the water, casting lines crossing the pools and hitting targets. It felt like batting practice at spring training with the stars at bat. We would hear a few "bravos" when an exceptionally long cast was thrown. At one point, I thought folks might even go up to their favorite batter – I mean caster – and ask for an autograph.

This tournament had the best casters in the world, many of them traveling across continents just for this competition. It was beautiful to stare, even gape at the casters as they looped their lines across the pools like a whirling dervish or a cowboy at a lasso competition; there was something Zen about it. I counted a kilt or two, with the Scottish duly representing their native sport. George was shaking hands with everyone there, including men 40 years his senior. This man knew how to network.

I was mildly disappointed that the tournament happened to be on the day of our first lesson; it meant that Abbey and I headed to the Polo Fields to practice our casting on the grass. If I was lucky, I thought, I'd hook myself a pony in the nearby stables or a tourist on a Segway circling us on the track.

George and Keith taught us the basics of casting. We learned that women are much better at learning the technique (supposedly we listen more), and we don't utilize brute force to chuck the line out. Abbey and I each had a rod (with no hooks attached) to practice fake casting. We were taught how to hold the rod (very similar to a golf club, in fact) and we learned how to make loops with forward and back casts, stopping just long enough between casts to put momentum into our next moves.

Surprisingly, it wasn't that hard, though my arm did get a workout. The Polo Fields, unprotected from the trees of the angling ponds, were quite windy, and it was hard to distinguish a good loop from a bad loop, as San Francisco gusts blew my lines out. Our instructors used humor and metaphor to get us through the lesson. They had Abbey and me laughing as we waved our rods in the middle of the Polo Fields.

After more than an hour of casting back and forth, I realized that I really wanted to be in water (not on grass) and have an actual fish in front of me – plus, my arm began to hurt. We wrapped up our lesson and headed back up to the clubhouse just in time for a $5 BBQ lunch hosted by super-friendly GGACC volunteers. With hamburgers in hand we sat on the grass and watched as the sun shone on the competitors practicing their casts.

Although GGACC was a beautiful hidden gem, I wanted to know where the fish were. Could you actually fish in SF by fly-fishing? I learned that the answer is yes; many locals cast for surfperch and striped bass right off Ocean Beach and Crissy Field. Although the majority of fly folk are on a mission for trout and escape from urban living by heading up to the Sierras, Redding, or even the coast.

In the end, I realized that I do not have what it takes, just yet, to impress a prospective VC with my angling skills, but I do know that I can reach out to the folks at Leland for a great afternoon of recreation. I think Gloria would be proud of me.

Want to fly-fish like a pro? Take a lesson with one of the certified teachers from Leland and check out all their gear. Become a member of Golden Gate Angling & Casting Club and begin utilizing the ponds in Golden Gate Park – perfect for dates, deal making, and general awesomeness. If you are really good, try your hand fishing at Crissy Field or Ocean Beach.

Pop-Up Guru

Mara Sohn — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 00:00:13 -0700

The soundtrack of my life has certain lyrics on repeat: "Focus on your breath," "Step or hop your feet forward," "Find your flow," and "Take your hands to heart center." This is how I know yoga has crept into my daily schedule. As a San Francisco resident, yoga studios are my sanctuary from the buzz and constant movement of the city.

But what if I could incorporate the city into my daily yoga practice? What if I didn't have to escape or hide from the cars, the views, the tourists, the sirens, and the bums to reach tranquility? Could noise and distraction actually help me reach a natural state of bliss? I set out on a journey to redefine the urban yoga experience.

I began my exploration by visiting a studio with a particularly urban essence: Yoga To The People. It's located at 16th and Mission, a crossroads where two groups beseech God: evangelicals preach for junkies to get clean and junkies pray for good scores in the open air market. Walking down Capp Street on my way to class in my "the opposite of sexy" yoga outfit, I pass by four men drunk in broad daylight (it's 12:30 p.m.). I don't know what about my baggy t-shirt and Uggs signals "hot" to these fine gentleman, but the catcalls are slurred and fervent. They make a chain so I can't pass by them. Unable to will them away telepathically, I step off the sidewalk and into the street to pass by.

Now hurrying, I make it to the entrance of Yoga To The People, an old shoddy building on 16th. Huffing and stomping up the five flights of stairs, I finally reach the studio. My shoes come off and I am in a large beautiful space filled with light, worn hardwood floors and a breathtaking view of downtown SF. I set down my mat and breathe. The Vinyasa Flow class begins and things start heating up quickly. With this type of yoga I have to move fast and the speed means I don't really have time to linger on my earlier encounter with the borachos. In the background, an iPod mix plays music ranging from The Beatles to The Magnetic Fields.

Even though I am in a studio, I can appreciate the city: the semi-seedy locale, skyline view, attractive hip-looking attendees and even the music mix feel very San Francisco. Even the blaring sirens and bum fight outside remind me of who I am — a city dweller. The best part? The class is donation based, meaning anyone can come and join. A socialist form of yoga — how very SF indeed.

My next exploration is through something called Hiking Yoga led by Eric Kipp, an outdoor fitness enthusiast and trainer. Not a morning person, I blearily hop on BART and head down to the Ferry Building on Saturday at 8:30am. Half of the city is already there jogging past the Embarcadero with their golden retrievers or hefting bags of Farmer's Market green garlic and organic chard blends. A line has already formed at Blue Bottle. A group of about 12 friendly exercise clad peeps circle around Eric. I'm amazed at the perfectly sunny sky – nary a cloud in sight.

We speed walk towards Jackson Square, making our first stop to do some initial stretching at Sidney Walton Park. Introductions are made, and we head for the hills. This lesson will focus on stairs – lots and lots of stairs. We hike up the Broadway/Lyon St. stairs, the Vallejo St. stairs, the stairs to Coit Tower/Telegraph Hill and finally descending upon the Filbert St. stairs. In between each set, somewhat short of breath, we stop to do some basic yoga poses and lunges, utilizing the benches nearby. This is not the yoga that I am used to.

Thank goodness the group is chatty; this becomes the saving grace of all these hills. Talking seems to distract from the pain of the climbing. As we ascend, the view expands. At the Broadway steps we look over the Ferry Building, with the East Bay and Bay Bridge waving at us. When we finally make it to the top of Coit Tower we can see the grand Golden Gate Bridge. The parrots of Telegraph Hill are out in full force. At this spot, Eric pulls out some mini yoga mats for us to use for our final practice of the day.

I am a bit unfocused from the 5,000,000 steps that I just managed to climb, the group of tourists snapping pictures, the toddler running through the grass and the especially talkative group members. I find that my yoga practice would like a little more structure and fewer stairs. But I do enjoy the adventure, the cardio, and the group. Eric even maps out our route walk and emails it to us afterward.

Still, I hadn't quite achieved nirvana: could I combine the best parts from my previous adventures — urban studio based yoga at Yoga To The People and being outside in the sunshine at Hiking Yoga? I decide to host a Pop-Up yoga class with local Yogi Nadine Johnson, who subs at Yoga Tree. By pop-up, I mean an impromptu class outdoors. Nadine is an Ashtanga studio yoga teacher who's agreed to be adventurous with me. We decide to host a free class at Dolores Park on Sunday at 10 a.m. I barely put the word out, but a small group still manages to roll out of bed, hangovers and all, to join us.

A few friends are hesitant to attend because of the public nature of the outing — they're not sure the world needs to see a display of their downward dog pose. One friend wrote, "The sky throws off my balance," to get out of it.

Our fearless group lays our colorful mats onto the dewy grass and starts out with traditional yoga poses moving through the Vinyasas. The park is pretty quiet, with a teenage couple still sleeping off last night's revelry. We are set up in the same location I've spent many hours imbibing cheap wine and completing crossword puzzles. "Ah, Dolores Park, your uses are exponential," I think to myself as I hold plank.

Nadine's melodious voice and calming presence help push the city away. Even the sound of the nearby tennis courts with the thwack thwack of the tennis ball takes on a rhythmic pace matching my own breath as I enter into cobra. The sun shines upon us, warming my body and allowing me to stretch deeper. Throughout the instruction we hear the sniffles of curious dogs out on their morning walks.

Particularly when we take pigeon pose, one dog stares in befuddlement and probably wonders if we are half bird. The incline of the hill and squishiness of the ground are the day's only faults. When we finish I feel calm and ready to take on the city's hustle and bustle. I breathe into the warrior pose with strength. I am a warrior. I am an urban warrior. Bring it, San Francisco.

Yoga To The People is a donation based studio with 3-4 classes daily. Hiking Yoga has classes every Saturday and Sunday at 9:00am, meet with the group at the Ferry Building directly under the clock tower. Yogi Nadine Johnson subs often at Yoga Tree. Nadine says that she wants to do more Pop-Up yoga after our adventure. Keep your eyes peeled for more info on this as of April 1st. Or feel free to connect with your fave Yogi and see if they are up for an outside adventure too!

Pop-up card by Renée Walker and Heidi Meredith

Garage Rock

Mara Sohn — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 00:00:13 -0800

Muscle cars in permanent disrepair, empty beer cans, a battered drum kit, broken lawn chairs, a tool box and oil stained concrete floors: these are the images that I associate with garages. They're a sacred place for highschoolers, even with their lack of heat and surplus of noxious fumes. My teen experience—think Weezer's "In the Garage"—was pretty common. I took refuge from the madness of pre-calc, chores, and my parents in my next door neighbor's garage.

At times we used coolers and buckets as seats to watch a group of melodramatic tweens barrel through Pixies covers. Mainly though we just cracked jokes and occasionally we played Boxhead. You don't know Boxhead? It was a drinking game that consisted of literally putting a cardboard box on your head and rolling dice to try and remove it. Sucks for you if you rolled an 11 or a 12. You'd be drinking in that box all night long.

Lucky for the young folks of the Outer Sunset, they don't need to put on a cardboard box to find booze and adventure, but they do need to go to a garage. It's a garage restaurant, actually: a Korean place called Toyose. But unlike the garage of my youth, there are no skateboards, 40 ouncers, or prepubescent boys annihilating "Here Comes Your Man."

I hopped in a cab with my friend Emily and blasted towards the sleepy Outer Sunset in search of Toyose. I saw the faint outline of the sea from the rolled down cab window as we passed Lincoln and headed towards Noriega. I peeped into the dining rooms of all the box houses and saw families sitting down for dinner. I imagined teens sitting down for their Hamburger Helper-based casserole, just itching to be excused and run to their garage sanctuary. The neighborhood was quiet aside from the

glom of "Missionites" waiting for a glass of wine and a table at Outerlands.

The cab arrived and I looked over at the address, making sure we were in the right place. Besides the winking chicken sign and the hours of operation (6pm-2am), this did not seem like a hopping restaurant; it didn't seem like a dining establishment at all, and the building blended into the garages on either side of it. I was a little concerned to see there

were no windows. I am not sure I've ever eaten at a place without any windows whatsoever, besides the food court at the mall. A whiff of nostalgia struck me: the garage, a respite from the urban world.

We creaked open the door and my jaw dropped. Much to my surprise we were in a full fledged restaurant. We had arrived early, because it fills up quickly. I had tried calling in advance for a reservation but each time had just reached a fax line.

As we were guided back to our table I took note of the semi-nautical decor (perhaps because of our proximity to the sea?). Ropes, burlap and nets wrapped the rafters and shone from the track lighting. We were seated in front of a collection of sexy posters advertising soju. Korean pop music blared in the background.

Our cute young server told us that if we needed anything at all to just ring the buzzer. The buzzer?

We looked around and noticed that each table had a doorbell buzzer. I was scared at first, but ended up buzzing without shame throughout the meal with the server running over immediately each time. At one point Emily said, "I think I just felt a drip from the ceiling," and I sighed, charmed that we were still in fact in a garage.

We started with drinks, of course. I noticed our neighbors were drinking a very large bottle of

yogurt-flavored soju and they were smiling more and more. As an adamant hater of soju, I was disappointed that this was the main alcoholic attraction, but I sucked it up and got a large bottle of the pineapple-flavored stuff. Much to my delight, the soju was sweet and light. It wasn't like drinking the sickly saccharine Boone's Farm at all (my usual garage fare). If I was a teen again, soju would be my gateway drug into heavy drinking.

The menu was much larger than we expected, with 4 or 5 pages of traditional late night Korean fare. We started with the Banchan—traditional Korean side dishes including old standbys like pickled cucumbers, daikon, kimchi and these little dried fish (they looked like skinny guppies to me). We had to try a little bit of everything, so we ordered: kimchi and beef fried rice (oily and spicy), seafood and green onion pancake (delicious), kimchi pork belly tofu hot pot soup (I think we overdid it with the kimchi) and fried chicken wings (dangerously good).

Our tiny shot glasses were refilled at a rapid rate and the room was growing fuzzier and brighter by the minute. At the end of the meal I felt a bit of oil on my chin and my hands had taken on a glossy sheen from all the greasy food I had managed to put into my mouth. This was a good thing—I needed something to soak up the incredible amounts of pineapple soju that I had pushed back.

As we walked out of the restaurant, heading to hop on the N-Judah home, we noticed youthful faces at every table. I realized that this is the type of place for a group dinner, not romance. Though neither was the

garage of my youth, which was built for drinking, escape and general rowdiness.

On my way home my stomach was a bit disgruntled from the large amounts of grease moving through me, or maybe it was all the soju. It was just like being 17, finally removing the cardboard box, making my way out of the garage and stumbling across the street with a booze-induced tummy ache. Maybe Toyose wasn't that different from the garage of my teenage years. Unhealthy maybe, and a bit over the top, but I don't regret either experience.

Toyose is open daily from 6pm-2am at 3814 Noriega St (between 45th and 46th). There were reserved signs on the tables, so maybe you'll have better luck making a reservation than I did. Oh, and if you were curious, check out Boxhead .

A Fare to Remember

Mara Sohn — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 07:00:13 -0800

Car culture may be part of being American, but cab culture is definitely the mark of a cosmopolitan. We are lucky to rely less on cars in San Francisco than other place thanks to bike lanes, the fun of taking the 38 Geary and the fact that our favorite spots are usually walkable. So when San Franciscans are offered the chance to be in a car, we can’t resist ourselves. We go nuts. Enter Disco Cab, a “nightclub in a cab.” It’s the genius of local cab driver H. who started driving a cab in San Francisco seven to eight years ago (originally of Iraqi descent). In 2004, he added a set of Christmas lights to his cab. He has upgraded the décor since then, and let me tell you – it is amazing.

With no itinerary planned, I asked H. to pick me up in the Mission and take me to some of his favorite places. I’d never been in his cab before. H. didn’t know where to take me at first but he knew that to show me the wonderment that is Disco Cab, we had to get out of the Mission. He hit the gas and we were suddenly on our way to the Tenderloin district (at light speed it felt – I buckled up). H. explained that the police in the Mission were not too keen on Disco Cab. I didn’t really understand why until we drove up South Van Ness and he hit the lights and we were aglow. How can I describe this? There were bright lights all around us, with ornamental hanging mirror balls lining the roof of the car, and a flashing ball sitting on the armrest between the two front seats. It was like being in a thumping nightclub, possibly in Ibiza, but one that smelled nice, where the bouncer was friendly and you could sit in a comfy chair with views of the best city on earth flashing by you. I understood why cops might have an issue with this.

H. turned the volume up on his banging stereo. Music is boss in Disco Cab, but there is no disco (sorry Gibbs Bros. fans). The music went back and forth between American house, electronic music and Arabic jams. H. loves Amr Diab, the best-known pop star from the Arabic music world, and he likes his music loud; I repeatedly had to shout over the tunes. I remember yelling, “How’s your hearing?” H. replied that he would be fine, and laughed at my silly question. The pulsating lights were timed to the music. Cars on either side of us started pointing, their mouths agape. When Disco Cab rolled up, everyone within 300 feet of us was smiling— me, H., the car of teens to our right and the grannies to our left. My grin couldn't extend itself further. I kept giggling. H. says he does have one competitor in the city – a guy from Desoto cabs that has Christmas lights. Christmas lights? Please. Disco Cab blows that cab outta the water.

Disco Cab was king in the Tenderloin. As we drove into the TL passing the police station with the lights on full blast, we stopped at a red light next to an obvious undercover cop (they all drive Fords, I’m not sure who they are trying to fool). H. was unconcerned. “I know him. He’s nice,” he said. The cop looked over and gave H. a friendly thumbs-up and H. blasted the lights and the music even louder. I giggled again. How could this night get better? H. still didn’t know where to take me. So we started talking about restaurants (we were both starving). I asked if there were any Middle Eastern restaurants he liked. H. said he could take me to a Turkish place that he loved — Gyro King, a well loved kebab joint that sits across the street from the San Francisco Main Public Library and the mess that is Civic Center. We were nearing closing time, but H. said “no worry” as he greeted the owner, an old friend. H. and I sat down for some delicious kebabs (I recommend the Adana). We grabbed some Baklava for the road. Yup, I ate dinner with a cabbie, and he was super nice and I liked his food recommendations. We even shared our kebabs – how cool is that?

Back in the cab, I asked if there were any other hidden gems in the TL. H. flew us over to Cairo Nights, his favorite hookah joint. We entered the smoky room, and H. greeted the owner. H. has lots of friends, it seems. Khalid, the owner of Cairo Nights, seemed super friendly and looks about 21 years old. I wondered if he was old enough to smoke. Starry-eyed young guys occupied little tables; I didn’t notice any ladies in the room. The spot met my qualifications for a smoking lounge: chill and foggy. After leaving the haze of Cairo Nights, we hopped back into Disco Cab, with my head a little heavy from the tobacco den. H. really wanted to take me to this place in the Marina, and although I am not a Marina type of gal, I thought, what the hell? It’s the Disco Cabbie’s choice. We whizzed through the city and arrived at Matrix Fillmore in what seemed like seconds. We found rock star parking, of course (did I mention that parking never seemed to be a problem for Disco Cab?). To H. , the Matrix Fillmore is the best bar in the city.

We entered the joint, and I instantly knew why this is H. ’s spot: it’s a club turned La-Z-Boy. It’s one giant couch. Two girls near the modern fireplace were literally lying down as they talked to each other, like some kind of Marina slumber party. In the back room, a couple canoodled. Downtempo beats were playing in the background.

I guess this place used to be a live venue where such notables as The Doors and The Velvet Underground would play. For some reason, I couldn’t picture Lou Reed hanging here in its newly remodeled glory – too clean. I’ll admit I’d have rather been in the Disco Cab with H. than a lounge, but I was tempted to take a short nap.

The best thing about hanging with H. was that I didn’t have to call a cab to get me back across the city. We hopped into Disco Cab, my own magic carpet. H. turned up the music and flashed the lights and we landed at my house in minutes flat. Disco Cab is like a lighthouse to the rest of the city, the shining hope of good times. As I jumped out, H. gave me two Arabic music mix CDs and with baklava in hand, I shut the cab door and looked at my dimly lit quiet home waving at me. I was tempted to turn back around and flag H. to take me on another adventure, but I realized I have his number and I could ring him up soon. I couldn’t find a partner in crime to join me that night, and I had been worried while waiting for H. that it would be awkward. But when I got in that cab and the music started bumping, I was on a one-woman party train. Actually, I take that back. I had two partners in crime that night: my new friend H. and his awesome light and music show on wheels.

Call H. at (415) 573-5113; you don’t have to be going to a club to call him. Just call him any old time. He charges regular cab fare, but of course tip well for his generosity and atmosphere!

Be sure to give H. an hour or two notice as he books up quickly and tends to lurk at the airport for his next fare. Who knows, you might find yourself bumping in Disco Cab soon.

Design and Photography by Redindhi

Building Blocks

Mara Sohn — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 12:33:11 -0800

The blocks that surround my house in the Mission District are alive. It is noisy: from pick-up soccer game shouting or the drunks that waver between excessive gregariousness and pure warring. Color is part of every corner, from its painted ladies (both of the night and of the Victorian variety) and homemade sign for Tortas (a sandwich of epic proportions) to the dragon-like graffiti that surround my corner bodega.

I can’t help but wonder what color or noise I bring to my own neighborhood. With little ability for futbol and no artistic ability, the one thing I know that I have is time. I decide to venture into the land of volunteering, to make myself familiar with those that also survive and thrive in the neighborhood I call home.

A specialty of mine includes super sleuthing – noticing when a new shop opens or a “welcome baby boy” banner is hung across the door – so it only takes me minutes to compile a list of non-profits within 8 blocks of my home. I get on the horn, and within hours almost all of the organizations I reach out to say they needed volunteers. My neighborhood needs me.

The only place I don’t hear back from is the drab looking church at 23rd and Capp. I’ve seen my neighbors (mostly Latino and Chinese families) line up there with wheeled shopping carts to receive food. The church’s voicemail message is in Spanish, and although I know the word “voluntario” I didn’t know how to say the words “bold” or “italic” in Spanish, so I leave a failed message in English.

I walk upstairs to the offices of the Bay Area Video Coalition (BAVC) on the Potrero/Mission border, embarking on my first volunteer opportunity. BAVC is a non-profit that teaches common folk (and a few advanced humans) how to make films, do things that make sound, and basically manhandle technology for the betterment of the world. The offices are sleek and modern in a loft-ish building overlooking a Muni bus graveyard.

I’m there to help with a teen holiday party, and I’m a little worried I’m going to end up chaperoning teens and confiscating alcohol. Turns out I was wrong – the education coordinator shows me to a phone at a desk surrounded by large windows. Outside it’s San Francisco gray.

My job: calling family members of the (mainly) low income children in their video classes to remind them that there’s a family night coming up – a chance for them to see the films and 3D animation their kids’ have put together, and perhaps learn a little more about technology themselves.

I look at the calling sheet nervously – lots of Spanish names, ruh roh. My calls go something like this: “Hola, me llamo Mara, y I am calling from Bay Ay Vay Cay, para una fiesta de familia para Jose’s clase de video.” I get 3-4 hang-ups. I feel disenchanted, but the few parents I do reach are so excited, I know I've made a small impact.

Next stop: Mission Economic Development Agency (MEDA). If you are like me, owning a home in San Francisco feels far from possible. MEDA’s goal is to basically make it easy for low-income and Latino families to get loans, negotiate with banks and understand housing opportunities based on how much dough you bring in.

I walk up to MEDA’s offices and am greeted by a brightly woven Mexican wall hanging. In contrast to BAVC’s clean lines and neat open area offices, MEDA is cluttered, crowded and full of paper. Ah, the Mission I know and love. I’m greeted sweetly by MEDA employees Josie and Ana. Ana, who keeps everything administratively in line, is wearing a green and red felt Santa hat with her name emblazoned in glitter.

It feels like home! I’ve arrived at lunchtime and I can hear loud laughter (that wavers between Spanish and English) from the lunch room where employees are making crafts and joking about ‘80s Latin pop-stars I’ve never heard of. Someone has popped off their high heels next to my work area and is running back and forth to the printer in her stockings.

Luckily, I don’t need to be fluent in Spanish for this volunteer position, but I do need to be fluent in alphabet for the fun job of filing. While filing, I learn that in the last 2 years, MEDA has had to hire an extra staff person just to help their constituents deal with foreclosures alone. So I put the Ramirez’s before the Rodriguez’s and I make a small dent in the boxes of paperwork.

A downpour starts as I head to my final destination, Cesar Chavez Elementary School, which I probably pass by 100 times a week. A massive mural of Cesar Chavez with his arms extended makes me feel welcome. Normally ice cream push carts (and other Mexican delights) line up at the entrance as they wait patiently with parents for the last bell and screaming children to run their way.

I’m there to help out with an after-school program called “Si Se Puede”, a program for academically challenged students. The majority of the school is bi-lingual and I wonder if my language situation (aka poor Spanish) will be a hindrance yet again.

The director shows me around the old school. Strolling past the kindergarten class I pass tiny chairs for tiny kids. In the library, kids spill over each other to reach books.  I can hear children speaking in two languages, weaving between English and Spanish. I join some ruckus-making kids in a small classroom, stuck inside on a rainy day.

One girl sings me a song in English of alphabetically listed adjectives that she’s had to memorize. I can still hear the song ringing in my head: “You are amazing, beautiful, caring, delightful, engaging, friendly, etc.” I assist another student with her math. The math problems are written in Spanish, so I have us quickly move on to her English homework.

Again, I’m defeated by my language limitations. This part of my volunteering experience was the hardest. Engaging one on one with stir crazy bi-lingual children is no small feat. I was overwhelmed.

At the end of the day, what did I learn? It’s time to practice my Spanish, and if I ever have a few hours, there are at least 10 non-profits surrounding me that could desperately use my help. All I have to do is walk out my front door.

DO IT YOURSELF

Some ideas to connect with your 8 blocks:

1) Try Volunteer Match to search opportunities by zip code. 2) Try a Google map search for non-profits in your locale. 3) Walk through your neighborhood and see what is out there.

Satellite photo courtesy the National Aeronautics and Space Administration: http://visibleearth.nasa.gov/ SF Skyline photo by Caitlinator: http://www.flickr.com/photos/caitlinator/3059731683/

Flirting with Disaster

Mara Sohn — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 06:51:34 -0800

Being prepared for a disaster is not something we, or at least I, think about when hitting that snooze button on the alarm.

In fact, I am arguably unprepared all the time (open toed shoes in the rain, forgetting where I put my toothbrush, the cat, my purse).

So I consider it noble indeed for the San Francisco Fire Department to try to train 20,000 normal forgetters like myself to be prepared for anything (well, mostly tsunamis and earthquakes) through a program called NERT (Neighborhood Response Emergency Training). I decided to try it out, and see if I could prepare myself for the next big one.

I hopped on the N Judah and headed to St. John of God Newman Center where an introductory session of NERT was being held. (Side note: I need to investigate San Francisco churches more often. This one was a stunner, the mid-century church of my dreams. A modern stained-glass portrait of who only could be THE St. John dominates one wall.) Anyway, I walked into a quickly crowded room of tables with metal folding chairs.

Two veteran firefighters, John Rocco and John Kaba, led the training, and I don't mean to be threatening here folks but according to these "disaster masters" the big one is inevitable and IT (tsunami, electrical fire, falling masonry) is going to happen. Apparently the effects of said pending earthquake will be dastardly in comparison to recent temblors like Loma Prieta and Northridge.

The Disaster Master kept saying things like "It's gonna happen" and "You can never really know when." The uncertainty factor wasn't the only tactic the Disaster Masters used to pull me in, they used film (I'm a total sucker). Who can deny the heart string puller of real-life footage from the '89 earthquake? The kicker is a clip that shows citizens like me and you (Okay, I lie, they were stronger and wearing shorts) running from the Bay carrying hoses to help put out the fires. These are real people, residents of the Marina, helping out. It was hard not to get a little soppy.

The video ended with a clip from the final game of the World Series with a performer from Beach Blanket Babylon singing the classic "San Francisco, Open Your Golden Gate." At this point I looked around the room and everyone else was soppy too. I couldn't help but notice the Giants hats and 49ers jackets in the audience—a little bit of San Francisco pride rising from our chests.

When the Big One hits, it's this passion and pride for the City by the Bay that will pull us together. It will help if some of us know what the hell we're doing.

You learn some amazing things over the six-week NERT course: self reliance, firefighting, utility control, emergency medicine, and managing a disaster. For me, the highlights included using a fire extinguisher (whee!) and a hands on exercise where you do some light search and rescue, where you can actually volunteer to be a victim. At the end of the course, you get an ID, a certificate and most importantly your orange vest and safety helmet.

For those not yet NERT certified, I talked with Lt. Erica Arteseros, program coordinator, about the few things that all San Franciscans should know about disaster preparedness:

1) Pending disaster requires training. Take a class so when IT happens, you're ready.

2) Have a disaster plan. Know where are you going to evacuate to, and pick someone out of state so that if cell phone networks are tied up and wires are down, there's someone who knows your status.

3) Create your own personal Disaster Home Kit. Focus on supplies that provide you comfort in your current daily living. For example, if you are someone who is cold all the time (aka anyone who lives in SF and is used to layering), be sure to put a pair of longjohns in your home kit. If you don't normally eat pea soup, don't buy it for your kit. Think of the kit as an extension of yourself. This will make the rough times much easier to handle. If you're like me, hot chocolate (or any chocolate) makes you an even-keeled human. Throw some in.

4) Connect with your neighbors and build a community. Not only will you establish connections that you would never otherwise have, but you can get help from them when it all goes down.

I decided to make my own disaster supply kit based upon the SFFD's recommendation. I thought it would be a good experiment to see if the Delano's IGA supermarket near my house could provide everything I needed in one fell swoop.

For under $100, I was able to purchase almost everything on the list that I didn't have at home. There were a few things that Delano's didn't have: ironically, a can opener (Fail #1), duct tape, rope, a portable radio, first aid book and a fire extinguisher. I guess I'm not surprised that they didn't have fire extinguishers. For food, I went for grub that won't perish for at least a year. And as five gallons of water is a lot to carry home, I only got two and a half gallons, which basically means I could only live for two and a half days, probably (Fail #2). Also, as I am a true forgetter I totally forgot to buy bleach (Fail #3), an emergency essential to purify water for drinking. I got out of Delano's with 31 items and dragged my two and a half gallons of of not-enough water and canned goods (without an opener) home.

Once home, I found an old suitcase with wheels. This was something that the NERT trainers recommended – finding something that rolls to move your supplies around in case of evacuation. I packed up my purchases with the items I had at home already. They also say you are supposed to pack extra cash in your kit, though it's hard to part with cold cash in advance. It felt totally awesome to have an evacuation kit ready to go (will my friends ridicule me? Probably!), but now I know that I am ahead of the game, and that I have supplies and food (sans opener, of course) in case something goes off the Richter.

I want to note a pair of shops to visit if you, like me, can't find all you need for your emergency kit at the supermarket:

T.A.D. GearIf John Muir were a shopper, this might be his favorite shopping spot to pick up any survival gear he might need. It's like a fancy REI. I found this place because I was looking for notepads that you could write on in the rain (long story) and of course this place carried them.

GallsThis store is a frequent spot for those mastering disaster (usually for civil service uniforms), but you can also get medical supplies here too (like a defibrillator!). Feel free to ask to try on a pair of handcuffs, just for fun.

Even with all the right gear and supplies there are some things that money can't buy, like having a plan in place and knowing how to limit destruction. That requires training from an experienced fire department and a community of heroes in orange vests to help when that Big One strikes. For now, I feel better knowing that thanks to some simple advice, a shopping trip and a smoke alarm, I'm prepared for the next Little One (I hope).

Images courtesy of:http://www.flickr.com/photos/seattlemunicipalarchives/3046433940/sizes/o/http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:ADBC_Branch_in_BeiChuan_after_earthquake.jpg