Yesterday was the first day of this trip that I didn’t have any hard set plans. The weather was supposed to be the best of the week (mostly sun, 21 degrees), so I figured it would be my lazy day to sit around at the beach for a couple hours.

I walked up to Market Street and took a bus that went all the way to Ocean Beach on the west side of town, not botherwing to stop for any breakfast or even a coffee.

The beach is the other part of the reason I wanted to come to California. When I used to think about moving here, that was this grand vision I’d always kept in my mind. We don’t have beaches like this in Toronto and we defnitely don’t have the same sun.

On a Wednesday afternoon the neighbourhoods you walk and bus through to get there are sparsely populated; mostly homes so, I assume everyone is off at work. It makes for a bit of a funny walk because its so deserted. The beach is not much different. Once you get onto the sand and begin the trek towards the water, the only thing that picks up is the wind. There is almost no one else around and those that are are so far from each other.

Ocean Beach, at least at this time of year, is a sort of messy beach. There’s a good bit of ocean debris that piles onto the sand that people stop to oggle and some mild trash from visitors, but mostly it’s just this sort of dirty coarse sand bed and roaring ocean full of tall waves. I caught more than a couple surfers trying their luck on them – the only ones brave enough to get in the cold water.

I walked a bunch of the beach just to listen to the waves and smell the air before parking myself on the sand somewhere midway and a little away from the water whose tide was eager to cover as much ground as possible.

As I sat watching the waves, I thought about what finally brought me here after so many years.

When I was very young my fascination with moving to California was deep. Like it does for so many others, there’s something about it that beckons for you to go to it. My best friend and I would sing songs about coming here and talk about it often – in grade school. In my teens, it would be the place I’d consider when I wanted to run away. I didn’t really think it would take me so long to finally come.

For most of my life I’ve never been in much of a rush; things would happen as they happen and as they’re meant to when they should. As I got older, I started to doubt that philosophy. Things were not happening as I believed they would happen and they weren’t leading me where I believed I should be going and if I did not begin to force things, they might never fully formulate at all.

I wish I would have had more confidence to try solo travelling when I was younger but the truth is I don’t think I would have been quite smart enough or sure enough in my self for it to have made a difference – even now, I find myself struggling a bit to do basic things like remembering to eat through the day, too concerned about where I have to go and how to get there to be wholly present on my own and too aware of the fact that I am again, alone.

I am stubbornly someone who travels best alone but always desires the company of others. I have to remind myself that when I have previously travelled with other people, I quickly get bored of the things most of them like to do; “we’re eating again? we’re drinking again? we’re shopping? really?” so, it would seem I can never be wholly happy with either scenario.

I used to write songs about coming to this state, too. Ignorantly with my own perception of it from movies and music, a lot of my earliest writing mentions or alludes to California, the beach, the west coast; in a former life, perhaps I lived here, or maybe I haven’t quite found the right part of it yet but I feel like I’m getting a little closer every time I find myself alone on an empty beach.

Hard as I try not to, as I’ve been here I’m reminded often of Sean and the way he’d speak about this state with so much pride and excitement. I can see why he’d say so, it’s got a lot of great things to offer and when the weather is just right, it really is beautiful just to exist in its space. “You would love it here,” he would say often. But there’s been something missing about it for me.

As the waves continued to crash in, I appropriately recognized that the caveat, the thing that finally brought me from Woodbridge, Ontario to San Fransisco, California, were somewhere just to the east of where I sat.

On Monday I reflected on how funny I found people who followed tours – on Wednesday I pulled up Ticketmaster on Ocean Beach to find a ticket to the show I’d already seen.

When you have to be mindful of your spending, going to the same concert twice on the same tour is a bit more of a challenging decision to make. “I’ve already seen the show, it’s going to be the exact same show,” I told myself. “Yeah, but you’ve also seen Serendipity like 400 times and you still stop to watch the whole thing when it comes on the TV at home.” I couldn’t argue with myself, we were both right.

The truth is that not even the most beautiful part of San Fransisco, the longest beach, the best trail, the best coffee or the finest restaurant would ever make me feel the way I feel when I’m watching Death Cab for Cutie.

I care about nothing the way I care about this band. When I’m at home, I have to actively stop myself from putting together another silly pop-punk cover of a DCFC classic because if I allowed myself to give into that urge every time it happened, it would be the only thing I do.

Berkeley semed like it might be a far trek on Monday; on Wedneday it couldn’t possibly be any closer. “You can’t stay on this side of the bay if they’re playing the other side of the bay.” Myself and I were no longer arguing, we were justifying. “How many miles on a plane for this show and how many miles to UC-Berkeley?”

So I cut my beach day short. “It’s too cold out anyways.” I found a ticket online, for the first time thankful for a Ticketmaster verified resale I could trust would work when I got to the doors.

Finally grabbed a coffee. Back to the hotel. Changed. Walked down to Market Street and settled in for another quick trip on the BART.

I bought the ticket around 12:30 and was in Berkeley by just after 3. When you give up your impulse to walk and just take the available transit, San Fransisco is much more managable.

On the BART, two guys near me began asking people where they were, what train they were on, where they were heading. One of them sat down and nodded off quickly, his head hanging over his knees in front of him, half off the seat. The other pulled open a large duffle bag that I couldn’t help but notice had a bunch of gas cannisters, like the kind of small portable ones you might use to easily start a campfire. He pulled out a flashlight and began tow ind it; churning the level for the next 3 stops with no light ever making its way out of its lens.

I wondered how long the next train might be if I got off and changed mine when he realized they also needed to get off at the next stop, jabbed his friend who stood quickly as he came back alive and they fumbled with their things onto the platform. He was still holding the flashlight.

I was in no real rush to getin line early for the show, though I did hope for another good spot on the floor. I know the Greek Theatre probably sounds way way better from further back, but I needed to be much closer. “You didn’t come all the way to Berkeley to sit on the lawns.” If I wanted pristine sound, I would just listen to the records.

After grabbing a fresh coffee from Cafe Rito (I’m so going to do nothing on my first day back but play Zelda and hang out with Dakota), I got in line. Turns out there’s two entrances to the Greek Theatre but I didn’t know that until I’d already parked myself on the ledge of the line I was in. I wondered if there might be less people on the other side. “Maybe, but there might also be more.” I was nearer to the front of the line this time than on Monday so, I didn’t want to risk it and kept my spot. I’d be able to get at least 2nd or 3rd row this way for sure. Well ahead of me were some of the same ppeople from Monday night and as we’d wait by the stage, I’d learn of many more who’d travelled from Seattle, Vancouver, and other west-coast cities to see multiple dates of this tour.

It’s not something Canadians really do. You don’t often hear about people jumping the VIA to Montreal for anything other than Osheaga and even then, its rare. We don’t have a lot of big-draw festivals like they do in the States, so it’s not a common culture. And for other shows, mostly everything is just too far and too much of a hassle to get to, plus, it gets expensive quick. This part of west coast culture I really envy but I can’t even say its something I’d take part in if I lived out this way; most bands seem to visit these cities so you don’t have to chase them – comparitively, more and more every year I feel like all my favourite bands are avoiding Canada. It gets difficult not to start taking that personally.

In my typical spot in second row just to the left of the middle of the stage, I laughed at how a guy who had to be at least 6’5 was the person almost exactly in front of me. Fortunately the girls to his right were just about my height or an inch shorter, but I knew the tall man would block my entire view of the left side of the stage. I’d be right and would barely see Nick or Jenny through their sets. C’est la vie.

Generally speaking, I love the crowds at Death Cab shows because they’re so diverse and for the most part, friendly and polite. There’s often kids around so people seem to be mindful of that and on better behaviour.

Sometime between The Beths and Death Cab, an argument broke out beside me. Turns out some dude was all pissed off that the woman in front of him against the barrier was backing up into him at times when she was dancing, “She even stepped on my feet! Reepatedly!” Internally, I groaned, “really dude?”

Of all the things to get upset about at a concert. He was getting more frantic and annoying about the ordeal and the girl asked him to stop harassing her. Finally, the two guys just beside me stepped in to tell him to back off, which was great because I really wasn’t in the mood to get involved in this petty shit.

You don’t just go around ruining the vibe before Death Cab plays Transatlanticism. Everybody knows that. Eventually like a spoiled child who couldn’t get his way, he wandered away for a bit.

Good. Stay there, wherever you went.

On the other side of me an older woman asked me if there was supposed to be anybody in the empty space beside me. “No no, you’re good,” and she moved up an inch.

The rustling calmed down to my left and the band hit the stage.

I’m still not sure what my favourite Death Cab record is, but Transatlanticism is up there.

More than once I swear I could hear Sean in my ear, “isn’t this great?”.

In this moment, California is just as you said it would be.

Being at concerts solo is always a little funny for me now. My desire is to dance and sing loud which can be a little obnoxious depending on the audience, so I try to read the room, but also from being out of town I have to be extra mindful and cautious of not accidentally losing my things. My phone is my life line here; my map, my transit card and my access to these events; I only have 1 hotel key and if I lose my passport, that’s a whole headache. So I’m more subdued and that’s for the best, but sometimes I long for the old days where I could hand off my keys and phone to a friend and disappear into the pit, emerging hours later drenched in sweat and with most of my voice missing.

The band was much livelier tonight than on Monday and it led to a couple goofs that wer’e quickly correctled and laughed off. That’s one part about seeing the same live concert on multiple nights, it never really is the same show. Each one full of its own unique character, little flubs or falls or glitches, different banter. As a performer you always hope to have as few errors as posible, but those moments can be some of the most fun as an audience member – you’ve just gotta be able to roll with it. These guys are really good at that.

Sometime during the beginning of Passenger Seat, another commotion picked up behind me on the floor. It wasn’t long before some-10 phone flashlights were waving to alert the Greek Theatre staff and the band that there was some trouble; someone needed a medic. Ben stopped the show, the calmest show stopping I’ve ever seen. The medics were already on their way in and his calm nature assured myself and those around me that whatever he could see that we couldn’t was going to get the attention it needed and that person would be alright. They got pulled out and the show went on, but you knew there was a weird energy in the room tonight that wasn’t here on Monday and you couldn’t help but get the feeling there was more going on than there should have been.

Later, staff would check in on some more people that looked a little worse for wear or were doing odd things. Later still, another fight would break out futher in the pit towards the seated area.

Before the show on of the die-hard fans had run back to her spot just a few people from me against the barricade and she was showing off that she’d gotten a photo with Ben’s parents.

I found this funny and imagine it must be bizarre for the parents of musicians to get this type of attention, too. It’s a level of fandom I’ll never be able to understand and I’m Death Bus, dammit.

The point of bringing this up is I couldn’t help but feel a little bummed that they’d have born witness to all these silly shenanigans (the unnecesary fighting, the ones who can’t handle their drink for a 2 hour show) as well, but I’m sure it’s not the first or last time they will. You go to a show just hoping to have a good time and it just sucks a little when all the other stuff happens; there are enough things in this world to get annoyed or angry about that really matter, right now let’s just enjoy the show.

The Postal Service were great again. They’re just such fun songs you can’t help but bop along. Sean would have lost his mind watching these shows; he would’ve been one of the die-hards following them up and down the coast. I’m really glad I decided to see it a second time. For their own reasons, each are a night I’m not soon to forget.

The guy that was fighting with the woman in the front row about getting his feet stepped on returned; they were all smiles now, everyone had a great time. They hashed it out and even took a photo to hold the memory of their strange meeting. All’s well that ends well.

There’s only a couple dates left if that guys t-shirt I saw is any true indicator, so if you’re able to pick up a ticket you really should.

I waited for the theatre to spill out a little before running over to the merch booth to grab the sweater I wanted to buy on Monday and a copy of Transatlanticism on vinyl. I’m a sucker for Forest Green.

At the merch booth, I found the tour bus idle area. Or it found me, I’m sure, because someone happened to beep a car horn from the lot as I walked by, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have even noticed it.

I hesitated. I still had to take a bus to the BART and then the BART across the water and then the bus from the BART to my hotel. But I would love to say hi to the band.

I remembered how quickly the guys hustled out of Massey Hall into their van in Toronto and how even then, with Nick and Ben beside me, I couldn’t utter a single word. So sure, I could wait around and try my luck with the tour bus lotto, but I think I’d just wind up feeling sad and sorry for myself if that moment didn’t come or if it didn’t work out the way I always imagine it in my head.

Plus, friends and family were in town – I’m sure they’re busy.

I’m also just not that girl anymore. I don’t hang around tour buses hoping to say hello. If we’re meant to meet one day, then we will when its meant to happen wherever the universe decides is more appropriate. I am just a visitor here.

The come down hit me fast on the bus to the BART. It’s amazing how something that brings you so much joy can also make you feel so without yourself. I tried not to cry as we made our way along the route, not wanting to draw unncessary attention to myself. I hoped I wasn’t making another mistake by trusting my instinct to just get back to the hotel and not linger around the venue til god knows when. I cried about it anyways.

I pulled myself together by the time I got to my last bus ride of the night. It took me to Geary & Larkin, and reluctantly, I walked up Larkin.

Larkin street is a little different every time you walk it, but so far it hasn’t done much to settle my nerves. Tonight it was full of prostitutes.

I’ve never seen anything like it outside of the movies. Out of respect for the women I won’t comment on their dress but make no mistake these were street corner sex workers.

I know it’s not a popular opinion to some, but I find sex work sad and disheartening to say the least. Many women who work within the industry will try all their might to convince you it’s empowering and that they’re proud of what they do but in no way in my mind can I ever find myself agreeing or understanding how. My honest opinion is that if you find yourself resorting to sex work, your self worth is so low and your hope so far gone that it becomes the only viable option for you to survive. Sure you might one day find yourself being one of those high-end sex wrokers which is a little more glamouras than the Larkin Street bunch I cam across, but you’re still selling your body for money and putting yourself in compromising vulnerable situations when you could be so much more in this world.

I resent that women resort to this type of work. I resent that women are raised to beleive their worth is in their physical form and not what they offer to conversations, emotionally and intelluctually and otherwise. I shudder when I meet men that make it obvious they believe women are here for their enjoyment and not their own fully capable free-thinking spirit.

As I settled back into my bunk, I hoped the person who needed a medic during Passenger Seat was doing alright.

And before I drifted off to sleep I hoped the women on Larkin Street had a safe night.

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This blog is part 6 in my ongoing series chronicling my trip to San Fransisco.
Catch up with the previous blogs below or jump to the next one: 

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

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In case you didn’t know, I have a couple of side projects inspired by the bands that inspired this trip.

Check out Death Bus for Blondie including my entire Asphalt Meadows cover album (and then some) and Canada Post, everywhere you stream.

Thanks for reading.