I got back to the states a week ago, and decided one of the best ways to get back into an American groove was to go to a good ‘ol fashioned baseball game.

So I headed off for San Francisco- I was to spend the night in the city with my sister, and then we would all head off to the game the next day. So there I was, waiting for BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit- Like the metro or subway for all you non-bay-area-ians) and finding ways to occupy my time while I waited for the late train. I found myself staring at the escalator that led up to the platform like I’d never seen an escalator before. I hadn’t been gone that long, had I? I stared out at rows of cars either coming towards me or away from me on either side of the platform. So many cars, I thought- we really do drive too much here in the states. I wondered if leaving the country makes you more aware of the mundane things you would never have noticed before. And then I wondered if they really matter.

I boarded BART and stared out the window at the houses flying by, and soon the inside of a tunnel. Here inside this train, with no distinguishing landmarks outside the window, only my own reflection, I could be anywhere in the world, I thought. It’s so indiscriminate and general. Here inside this train you would never know if you were in America or Spain or Japan or Russia. It would be the same experience.

We soon reached my stop, and I exited the train, and then exited the underground station to come up into the heart of San Francisco- and for the first time I truly felt home. There were people everywhere- and they were “my people.” These people were not homogeneous- they were not all the same race or color or size- they were all different shapes and colors and they were all dressed differently and all speaking differently. At that moment I realized the one thing that I had missed the most about the US- diversity. Having lived in the San Francisco bay area my whole life, I had taken diversity for granted. I had always thought other countries would be the same- all mixed up. I wasn’t expecting to see ONLY Thai people in Thailand. Yes, their shade of skin and some other attributes were somewhat varied, but still, they were ALL THAI. I had never seen that many of one type of people in one place before. Same with Greece, and, to a lesser extent, Spain. There were some people of other colors and backgrounds in these countries, but this definitely was not common, and when you did see them, they stuck out and were easy to identify as “foreign.” It was like a breath of fresh air to come back and see every nationality represented within two city blocks. I tromped up Powell Street, and saw a Thai restaurant followed by an Italian restaurant followed by a Chinese Restaurant. A Mediterranean one was around the corner, followed by a traditional American café. I navigated around a group of Japanese people, followed by a couple consisting of an African-American man and an Asian woman. I then passed two women holding hands, and then a group of different colored street performers playing blues for money on the street corner. This is what I had been missing. The variety and color diversity brings to a society. No throngs of uniform bobbing dark heads- no streets of tapas restaurant after tapas restaurant- here there was life and color and I felt like I could finally breathe. I was home.

That night we went out to a bar, and while everyone else’s IDs were deemed valid, and while I failed to see the problem, the bartender did not seem to like my temporary paper license and the photocopy of my previous license I was still carrying around with me. (I had lost the real one when I was robbed.) Mad and thirsty, I set off back to my sister’s apartment to retrieve my passport which I had thankfully brought along. After waiting on the curb for a taxi proved futile, I started walking in the direction of her apartment. I was suddenly surrounded by transvestites and remembered that I was in the Castro district, and this was the weekend of the Pride Parade. One exceptionally large lady lumber past me wearing black leather from head to toe, a short yellow wig, and a pair of heels that I wouldn’t have even attempted to walk in. I smiled and thought about how this was, if maybe not an everyday occurrence, pretty damn close, and I again felt the joy and relief of being home.

I tried hailing cabs the whole walk back to my sister’s, but there were so many people out and about that I was about to give up, when a block from my sister’s apartment I finally hailed an empty one- or so I thought. When the cabbie pulled over, the large transvestite from earlier slid out of the tiny cab- a sight which looked like a whale coming out of a sardine can- and said in a low husky voice, “It’s all yours, sweetheart.” The surprise shocked me for just a split second before I jumped in the cab and directed him where to go. Upon arriving back at the bar, passport in hand, I slammed the passport down on the counter, ordered my drink, and said, “And make it strong- I just walked across the whole damn city for this!” And he sweetly complied.

The next day we headed off for the Oakland stadium, and I was again reminded of why I had missed this country- thousands of people, of every race and background possible, all gathered in one place to share a common interest. Now all you people who complain about what a crazy liberal hippie I am pay attention, because I doubt you’ll hear me say this again, but I had never thought that traveling the world would actually- gasp- make me like and appreciate the USA. Who would have thought- it’s not that bad after all. (Sidebar- I actually think in many ways it is, but for the sake of ending this positively and keeping some sort of romanticism, I’ll let it go . . . this time ☺ )