feauture stories

8/12/2019 Feauture Stories

1/15

George Sanchez by Chloe DicksonGeorge Sanchez walks into the sterile looking room in Fromm Hall with a group of professors and co-workers trailingbehind him. George keeps a straight face as he and his partner Julie walk to the center of the room to address the crowd.It has taken George four years to get to this point, and tonight is about him, his partner and their controversial yetinformative documentary.

Although his face is not too animated, a look of passion juts out of Georges dark piercing eyes as he stares back at thefaces in the crowd. He is professional in appearance and somewhat resembles a more youthful Andy Garcia. His jetblack hair is perfectly combed to his head, and his ear length sideburns are immaculately trimmed. His square framedglasses awkwardly match his dark suit. Both are slightly too big for his 5ft 7inch frame. The hemmed sleeves of hisjacket surpass is wrists and his pant legs bunch over a pair of black and white vintage Doc Martins.

When he speaks it is hard not to notice his voice. It is light and airy. Much different from his specific look, which callsfor a gruff and hardened voice.

Through most of the question and answer session, Sanchez is sitting on the sidelines letting his co-worker Julie takecenter stage. Its as if he is examining her every word. When she speaks he watches her intently with his hands in hispockets and his legs crossed at the ankles.

Every time a question is thrown his way he pauses, scratches his goatee and thinks about his potential answer. When hegives one, his small figure suddenly comes to life. His face fills with expression and his hands come out of hiding tohelp him describe his experiences.

As he explains the difficulty of interviewing people in jail, he says, we had our film confiscated once on a prisonground. He pauses and a smile cracks across his face That was pretty cool. As he makes the joke his entire lookchanges. He beams back at the laughing crowd and it is evident that he has dropped his professional image. But assuddenly as he lets it go it is back. Ever so quickly he crosses his legs, shoves his hands back into the depths of hispockets and lets his face turn back into stone.POSTED BY . . . . J .MICHAEL ROBERTSON AT 10:49 PM0 COMMENTSTurbulent Thai by Alex Anderson

Whats good about not having a knife at a tasty restaurant? You get to lick your fingers. I only noticed the missingutensil once my appetizer of Angel Wings was placed on my small orange table inside the bustling Marnee Thairestaurant. After lifting a sticky brown chicken wing to my lips and biting into the tender morsel I fell victim to MarneeThais appeal.

It has an informal atmosphere of turbulent clamor, yet amidst the flurry it spits out plates of comfortingsophistication.The doorway into the eatery is thin, and the walls are hidden beneath umpteen restaurant reviewscommending the tiny restaurant for it friendliness and succulent cuisine.

Through a glass partition to the left, the cooks can be seen hopping from grill to grill in frantic dance. On a busy nightyou may be waiting in the tight doorway with a few others looking over yellow paper menus. The restaurant consists ofeleven 2-seater tables lining the entirety of the right wall and a couple 4-seaters to the back right.

A thin aisle down the center separates the tables along the left wall with the kitchen, wine bar, and dish washing area onthe left. A round woman, wearing a shimmery blouse of gold and brown, hobbled down the aisle violently spoutingsomething in Thai to the frenzied chefs. When she reached me, she produced a warm smile and led me to mytable.Hisses burst from clouds of steam in the kitchen, and the song of clanking plates rattled against a metal sink.

My waitress wobbled back and forth down the aisle. Out of the chaos a worried looking waiter slid a fresh cup of icewater across my table. He and a slender woman in a red kimono were the only others serving alongside my waitress.

She plopped an order of veggie spring rolls packed with crispy greens on my neighbors table. The plate was jammedbetween two other dishes piled high with sauce-smothered meat.You like this, she said frankly. Then she was gone.Back on her two-way journey back and forth.

Not as spicy as the menu cautions, the appetizer of Spicy Angel Wings (deep fried chicken wings) is a delight, pricedat $7.50. The modestly spiced garlic sauce sticking to the delicious nuggets of meat makes for some serious mouthwatering. The sauce proves its point without overpowering the taste of the tender chicken within. The garlicky goo washot to the touch, raced straight from the grill to my mouth. The dish is sprinkled with delicate wisps of basil leaves thatcrumble into nothingness on your tongue.

While I sat lost in a world of decadent tastes, the waitresses still hobbled and zoomed past my table and past the
http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/george-sanchez-by-chloe-dickson.htmlhttp://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/george-sanchez-by-chloe-dickson.htmlhttp://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=2656417105892874854http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=2656417105892874854http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=2656417105892874854http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=2656417105892874854http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=2656417105892874854http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/george-sanchez-by-chloe-dickson.html


2/15

cluttered bar directly across from me. On the bar stools, plates were piled atop stacks of menus. More of these toweringstacks rose from the top of the bar. Behind these stacks, a row of potted plants were propped up at different levels, theirprice tags dangling from strings. A portable phone sitting next to the cash register rang sporadically through the rumbleof dinner conversation and the random outbursts of commands from my waitress.

My Pad Thai ran a little late, and the chefs were instantly informed. My waitress bumbled up to them and yelled

fervently while stabbing her pointer finger into a notepad shoved through the glass partition. The kitchen fell to nearsilence and diners gossiped softly.

She returned with an ecstatic smile and nodded saying, Its coming.Marnee Thais cuisine is a tad pricey, but thesauces of sweetness, sourness, or spiciness make up for it. Serving lunch and dinner, the restaurants cheapest dish is$5.95 (fried rolls inside a concoction of ground meats, mushrooms, cabbages, and noodles). The more expensivechoices involve prawns, like the chef-suggested Pad Phong Ka Ree (A mixture of sauted prawns, mushrooms, currypowder, egg, bell peppers, and onions), at $11.50. Marnees portions are generous.

Almost every menu item is meant to be shared. The mass of noodles in my Pad Thai concealed plump shrimps and freshvegetables. The slightly thin peanut sauce was accentuated by tiny peanut sprinkles. After taking a last crunch I ordereda doggy bag.My waitress barked at the chefs as she waddled up to my table, her head craned to the kitchen. The phone

rang, a neighboring table waved for attention, she gave me a candy, the check, and a smile. She said, Thank you, andhoped Id return. And I believed her.

Marnee Thai has two locations: 2225 Irving Street(415) 665-9500 and 1243 9th Avenue (415) 731-9999.

Open for lunch from 11:30 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. and openfor dinner 5:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m.. Accepts reservations.

@-Amiss@@-All Right@@@-Admirable@@@@-AmazingPOSTED BY . . . . J .MICHAEL ROBERTSON AT 12:52 PM0 COMMENTS

W E D N E S D A Y , J A N U A R Y 0 3 , 2 0 0 7A Travel Story with a Bit of a Twist

A long journey need not cover a long distance, don't you think?

Alan JohnsonNovember 10, 2006Travel Story

The glistening marble floors of the San Francisco Shopping Centre, home to high priced stores and even higher pricedrestaurants, extend in every direction under the omnipotent dome of the old Emporium on Market Street. The newcarpet and the luxurious seats spread on the top floor of this shoppers paradise have not lost any of their originalcomfort. The smells of Italian espresso and fresh baked pastries permeate the air early on a Monday morning. Having

passed through the new Bloomingdales store just minutes prior, San Francisco Chronicle staff photographer BrantWards eleven student photojournalism class from the University of San Francisco is filled with a sense of wonder andawe as they explore the edifice. For many this is their first visit to the mall. The students have no idea what is in storefor them next.

All of this was to be part of a planned class trip to the San Francisco Chronicle led by Ward to familiarize students withwhat a real working newsroom is like for a photographer. Prior to the San Francisco Shopping Centre stop the classspent some time at the San Francisco Chronicle building itself, walking through the dim hallways and absorbing thesmell of instant coffee.

After some of the students devour their rich pastries and consume their warm, but not too hot, specialty coffee drinksunder the San Francisco Shopping Centre dome Ward leads them down to market and towards the derelict Tenderloin

area of San Francisco. Immediately after crossing Fifth Street panhandlers approach the group of students as if each ofthem is a cartoon dog and the students each have a big piece of fresh meat in their pocket luring them over. Many of thegirls are assaulted with calls detailing disgusting acts. The smell of urine and cigarettes fills the air as the class filesdown the sidewalk, not daring to move an inch in any other direction than straight ahead. Ward, a frequent visitor to theTenderloin due to his intensive expos on the homeless in San Francisco, walks with a cool calm demeanor, evengreeting many of the characters lining up for food at a soup kitchen.

The Ward-led beeline stops at St. Boniface Catholic Church on Golden Gate Avenue, a place that opens its doors at
http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/turbulent-thai-by-alex-anderson.htmlhttp://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/turbulent-thai-by-alex-anderson.htmlhttp://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3241628394266951165http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3241628394266951165http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3241628394266951165http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3241628394266951165http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3241628394266951165http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/turbulent-thai-by-alex-anderson.html


3/15

night to allow the homeless to sleep on the pews. Ward is searching for someone that he has taken photos of in order toget his name and has heard that St. Boniface is a spot this individual frequents. As the students enter the church, thesmell of unwashed clothes and human being cuts at the nostrils. The sound of snoring is overwhelming yet barely there,as it is the only sound in the entire building. The students walk up and down the pews as Ward converses with somepeople who oversee the building when these unfortunate guests are occupying it.

As the students file out of the church the students become less and less sure where they are going next. Ward leads themto a corner where a man that was featured on the cover of that days San Francisco Chronicle often spends his time,looking to show him his picture on the newspaper. Ward asks a couple of people where this man, Michael Dick, is asthe students huddle together.Ward and the students enter a refurbished hotel where many homeless have been taken in by a citywide programattempting to get people off the streets. The lobby of the building looks like a place where a 12-step program would betaught, complete with Dixie cups and a plastic water cooler. The squat lady at the front desk says she knows Dick andsays that he should be by any minute. As the group waits for Dick some of the residents of the building vagabonding inthe lobby start conversation with some of the students.

When Dick passes through the door he is greeted by Ward jovially and is excitedly led across the street to anamalgamation laudromat/icecream shop/internet caf. The proprietor of the business is none too pleased to see a group

of young people enter his establishment, so much so that the words you break it, you buy it seem to be broadcast fromhis face. Ward rents some time for Dick to use the Internet and watch a multimedia presentation that he is featured on,only to find that the computer is not equipped with speakers. Ward continues to show Dick his presentation, paying noattention to the fact that there is no sound.

Once the presentation is finished, Ward leads the group now with an additional member, Dick, looking for a friend ofDicks, Ricky. Not finding Ricky but many others is the menu for the day. One woman that approaches the group claimsto have been stuck by a bus and being launched across an intersection just a few days prior. The woman is marked bylarge gashes across her face but walks as if nothing has happened.

After unsuccessfully scouring the streets for this character and being pushed for cigarettes, Ward concedes his searchand takes the students and Dick to a cramped local Vietnamese diner.

POSTED BY . . . . J .MICHAEL ROBERTSON AT 3:38 PM0 COMMENTSGetting This Blog up to DateBefore classes start, I'll post at least one more story from everyone in the class. We had some good ones.POSTED BY . . . . J .MICHAEL ROBERTSON AT 3:17 PM0 COMMENTST U E S D A Y , S E P T E M B E R 1 2 , 2 0 0 6Seven Ways of Looking at an ElevatorThe assignment for each member of the feature writing class was to take a campus elevator and remain inside for 30minutes. I told the students: 1) to look closely at the physical environment, that is, really study that elevator and itsoccupants and to use all of their senses in doing so; 2) to be alert for stray bits of dialogue overheard, such dialoguesometimes being better than anything we could make up.

As for identifying themselves a journalism students on assignment, that was up to them. One of the unexpressed aims of

this exercise was to make them uncomfortable and to see how they handled it.

Below are the stories. They were not written to be graded. They were written fast, and in some instances the spellingand grammar suggest as much. But overall I was pleased by the way the students managed to capture something aboutthe USF experience through these seven windows.

The posting of these vignettes is part of a second assignment. Each student is responsible for writing a round up leadthat could serve as an introduction for a package called .

Seven Ways of Looking at an Elevator (Intro still needs to be posted)

Malloy Hall

The number two elevator in Malloy Hall is a place, though not heavily traveled, that ends up seeing many different facesthroughout the day. Its a clean elevator, with modern styled lighting, brushedmetal paneled walls, and a clean, almostnew smell to it that all reflect the building it is in. The electric hum of the lights added to the sterile feel of the elevator.Malloy Hall is home to the USF School of Business where students study hard to enter into the world of business.I was about to spend 30 minutes in the number two elevator.
http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/travel-story-with-bit-of-twist.htmlhttp://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/travel-story-with-bit-of-twist.htmlhttp://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3182312006587777714http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3182312006587777714http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3182312006587777714http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/getting-this-blog-up-to-date.htmlhttp://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/getting-this-blog-up-to-date.htmlhttp://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3776376656931603636http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3776376656931603636http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3776376656931603636http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3776376656931603636http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3182312006587777714http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3776376656931603636http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3182312006587777714http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3776376656931603636http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/getting-this-blog-up-to-date.htmlhttp://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=3182312006587777714http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2007/01/travel-story-with-bit-of-twist.html


4/15

I stepped into the elevator on the first floor with a book in hand as my cover for being in the elevator and hopefully tokeep people from noticing me. One cannot underestimate the curiosity of those who use Malloy Hall.

For the first 10 minutes in elevator number two the only activity that went on was the sporadic going up and down ofthe carriage but with no one at the door when it opened. Finally the door opened and in came a box scooting across the

floor. A man dressed in a brown Hawaiian shirt was kicking the box. The box seemed to be empty or near empty so itwould sometimes hop as the man kicked it. Brown Hawaiian shirt man pressed the button to his floor looking straightahead at the door until his stop came. He stepped out as he kicked the box into the hall.

At times, people would congregate outside the doors of the elevator only to talk, nothing more. During one of thesetimes a roar of laughter came over the group just as the elevator was being pulled away from the floor they were on. Theelevator stopped and in walked a girl that seemed intrigued by what I was doing in the elevator but did not say anything.She pressed herself to the opposite end of the elevator while holding the large legal sized envelope she was carryingclose to her chest. As the door opened she quickly stepped out of the elevator, seeming disturbed by the fact that I didnot have a floor to go to.

Just a few minutes later a man wearing a blue and gray sweat suit walked into the elevator and the smell of curry took

over the space of the carriage. He was holding a box from the school cafeteria as he chomped into an apple, making aloud noise. He stayed as close to the door as possible so that he could exit the elevator quickly.

Some time went by with no movement in the elevator at all when the door suddenly opened and in walked envelope girl.Envelope girl walked in with a quizzical look on her face. I couldnt help but laugh and Ifelt the tension in the roomcompletely dissipate as that happened. She immediately asked me in a thick eastern European accent, Do you just likereading in the elevator? I explained to her what I was doing in there and she told me that if I had not laughed she wasgoing to come up really close to me to try to make me feel awkward and uncomfortable. We laughed about that for amoment as she even forgot to step out of the elevator at her stop. She pressed the door open button and told me shemight be coming back in a little to head back downstairs as she walked out. I laughed.

The elevator pulled up and opened up to a man in a blue suit and a gold tie. He looked like a professor and after he

opened his mouth he sounded like one too; he had a British accent. Immediately after stepping in he asked me if I wasgoing anywhere in particular and I told him that I was observing activity that went on in the elevator, to which hereplied attempting to be humorous, Well you just saw me coming and going. As the elevator door closed I wished hima good day.

Literally a second after gold tie guy stepped out of the elevator, elevator number two was beckoned once again. Inwalked blue Oxford shirt-file folder guy, whose name should basically let you know all there was to know about him.He smelled strongly of aftershave and he had that stressed out 40-something look to him. He didnt say anything butwas obviously going out of his way to ignore my presence there. He made a few clicking noises with his tongue beforestepping out at his stop. As it turns out though, he works in the business school office as I found out after leaving mypost in the elevator.

Brown Hawaiian shirt guy returned and immediately after walking in he asked me, Havent I seen you here before? Itell him yes and he instantly assumed that it was a sociology experiment. He also gave me some free advice andsuggested that I find another elevator that is more heavily populated.

He then stepped out, never to be seen again. --A. Johnson

Cowell Hall

The round pock marks on the deep brown floor of the elevator in Cowell are worn into oblivion directly inside the door,and in front of the black numbered buttons. This is where students and faculty members like to stand until the clunky

silver doors release them onto the floor of their choice.

Once inside the dim, brown, moving box it is hard to miss the neon green piece of paper advising students to go throughthe process of ALCOHOLEDU online. It is taped on all four sides by scotch tape, with its bottom left corner torn off.The power of its color dominates that of the long rectangular light that feebly glows from the ceiling. A white gnatresembling a flying speck of dust rests on the bald spots where the brown paint is peeling along the lights sides.

The door opens on the fourth floor where a tall student slowly waddles in, wearing a backwards baseball cap and too


5/15

much cologne. The door slides to the left with a soft, affirmative pound at its closing. The student leans on the woodpattern walls. He gnaws a piece of gum, watching the numbers above the door turn orange. For each floor that it passes,the elevator lets out a short polite beep. Sporadic creakings rub up against the outside of the moving vehicle.

The doors open on the first floor and the chewing fades, replaced by the sound of giggling and talking as people pile outof a large classroom. The smell of popcorn becomes trapped inside. A new visitor stands in front of the numbers and

bows her head to her cell phone, text messaging, and chewing gum. On the fourth floor she wanders out of the dimnessaway from the confusing scent of perfume tainted popcorn. A slight breath from outside of the doors pushes a smallpiece of neon green paper inside a metal protrusion on the right wall. It is the missing corner of the ALCOHOLEDUpaper and its wrapped around a wad of green gum. Run your fingers over the insides of the three metal bars that arewelded to the walls and you will find 6 fossilized balls of different colors. --A. Anderson

Gleeson Library

I push the button to see where the Gleeson Library elevator will go. A mouse-like squeak tells me the door is open,

ready for me to walk in. I cant decide which floor to go to, (there are only three) so I just look around instead as thedoor closes. On the back light wooden panel, theres a sign directing you to the Modern Language and TheologyDepartment up on the third floor. The only light is coming from nine perfectly spaced circle lights on the ceiling and thewhole area smells like a stale doctors office.

Im starting to get a little too warm, so I pray that someone will open the door to let a draft of cool air in. My eyeglances at the emergency telephone used for fires and disasters. I wonder if it works. I am suddenly so tempted to try it.But the guy at the front desk gave me a scary look, so I decide not to push the limits. The elevator sounds like the insideof an air conditioner and the air tastes like foil.

My boredom is by this point totally unbearable. Im slouching against the wall,wanting to sit down. I push the 2button, but its uneventful as well. I notice it takes many, many seconds to get down one floor. It would take just as long

to walk up or down the stairs. What kind of lazy person would even bother taking this thing anywhere? My mind beginsto wander to questions like, Who has the little mini key for the fan speed in here? Who has the special silver key tothe fire alarm? I wish I had those keys. Then itd get really interesting in here

Im bored! I start whistlingto myself until the elevator jerks back down to the first floor. A guy listening to music getsin, and nearly screams OH! when he sees me. It was hilarious. I really scared him! He gets off on the second floorthen I move back down to the first. Another girl gets on who proceeds to look at me like Im totally crazy. She gets offon the second floor then turns right to walk down the stairs! Maybe she just wanted to ride the elevator, too.

Suddenly I remember the other elevator in the back of the library! The lower level! I get off the main elevator and walkto the one in the back. I walk through the yellow copy room that smells like carbon and into the tiny beige carpeted box.I notice a little *dgaf* graffiti on the wall and a fan on the ceiling. It sounds like a CAT scan in here. Clearly, no one

uses this elevator and I start to feel bad for it. Its whole purpose in life is to take people up and down, but it probablyrarely gets to do so. Then I stop caring and walk out of the elevator, because really, it cant offer me too much. --B.Moore

University Center Main Elevator

The UC building that is centered in the heart of USFs campus is buzzing with students, faculty and employees who arerushing off to various destinations within the five story complex. The main elevator that is located on the third floor

helps many different people navigate around from floor to floor. The elevator itself is small, outdated and in many waysin need of a renovation. The three inside walls are made of imitation wood that bares years of ware and tear. Words and

names such as Natasha, water and fear have been etched into the material, along with countless other scrapes, chipsand marks. The sliding metal doors have been branded with the statement Impeach Bush, which leaves one with a

little reminder of San Franciscos liberal qualities.

Because the elevator is such a compact space, the smell changes with every person who walks in and out of it. At first, itsmelled of stale Nacho Cheese Dorito chips, but after five minutes of quiet, three people walked in. Two middle agedladies strolled in with Crossroads coffee cups complaining about the weakness and sour taste of their beverages, along


6/15

with a young man carrying a FedEx package who reeked of cigarettes. He asked what floor I was going to and Iresponded with No floor thank you.

Seconds after the elevator had cleared it was filled again, this time with a student and a Bon Apetit manager. As theyrode down from the fourth floor to the first, they discussed the girls schedule and time restrictions. Before they steppedout, the manager exclaimed Welcome to the team, and just like that, she was hired and walking off to fill out her

employment papers. As they stepped out, 2 more Bon Apetit workers stepped in complaining about the job and thecurrent management. The old management was different, one said to the other things are less organized now. Afterthey stepped out on the second floor, the doors closed and the elevator stood still. The bright fluorescent lights beameddown on me and a humming sound filled my ears. It didnt last long however before a student entered smelling of a badmixture of cheap cologne and bar soap. He was plugged into his ipod which was playing so loud that it was easy tomake out the songBoulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day. He motioned to me what floor I wanted and Iquietly responded again with No floor thank you. He got off on the fourth floor and looked back at me as he walked.Seconds later the doors closed and down, down it went.

A girl in a black and white stripped shirt stepped in on the second floor. She looked nervous and awkward. She got offon the fifth floor where a nicely dressed man stepped in. He got off on the third floor where three more Bon Apetitworkers stepped in. They too were complaining about the job. This time it was about scheduling and work conflicts.

They stepped out on the first floor, and as the doors closed, the humming noise appeared once again. This time itsounded much louder. After another five minutes of confinement, the elevator started to move again. It stopped on thefifth floor and the girl with the black and white striped shirt got back in. She looked less nervous now, but once sherealized that I was still in there, her facial expression changed and she looked confused. She awkwardly asked me whatfloor I wanted, and because I knew that this was the last time I had to answer the question, I said No floor thank you,Im doing this for fun. -- C. Dickson

Harney Science Building

Four walls, two silver, two a dismal shade of puke gray and a smell that reminds one of expired cleaning supplies; theelevator in Harney looks like a cage. Upon examining the walls details jump out: the scratches made by keys, the deepgashes on the sides of the walls perhaps carved while enduring the boredom of riding floor to floor and the occasional

smudged handprint how it got there I will not dare to imagine. Let it be noted that this reporter is both Closter phobicand afraid of elevators so her senses were running wild. The bright sterile light makes this steel box anything but homeyand with the shortage of riders on my long trip the ambience or lack there of made it that much more uncomfortable.

With each thrust of the elevator both up and down I anticipated the interaction that would follow. Elevator etiquette isthe strangest thing; enter, turn forward and look upor look at your shoes which ever is individually satisfying. Mostignored my presence but found it odd that I was standing quietly in the corner not pushing any buttons; the mostinteresting interactions were from those that actually inquired about my actions. I hope no one calls the security guardsand says theres someone lurking in the elevator, Responded a man when for the second time we rode the elevatortogether. The most common response to my creative assignment was, Have fun! The most colorful was a youngwoman who got on the elevator pushed the wrong button then exclaimed, Oh Fuck! When I told her I was doing ajournalism assignment her reaction was, Oh great your paper will say and there was this girl who said Oh Fuck! She

was right.

My head felt like it was being pounded by a basketball as I stood for my last few minutes in the elevator. The lack ofoxygen coupled with my inability to visualize my happy place forced me out into the real world with actual colors andfresh air blowing on my face. --K. Johnson

University Center/Freight Elevator

Going down?Yes.

Going up?Yes.

Today, not just any direction could suffice, it took no direction at all to land such an unpredictable experience. As thedoor opened, the smell was of relish and stale garbage, accented with breezes of cafeteria food. Walking through theentrance, my feet stuck to the floor as my arm grazed the wall, caressing a substance I would rather not have beenexposed to. I could imagine if I had touched my tongue to the wall, would it have caused a Christmas Story-escshenanigan that only the San Francisco Fire Department could save me from?


7/15

One dim fluorescent bulb lit the grimy rectangular box and the door closed behind me, I was now the prisoner of one ofthe most horrific elevators in USF history. Looking up, the ceiling had scratches in it reminiscent of a horror movie andthe walls were broken and damaged as if a Velociraptor were once trapped inside.

Moving up and down, the elevator grimaced as mostly Bon Appetite cooks traveled between the first and second floor.The capacity warning stated that myself and 2350 extra pounds could fit, but I was hardly convinced. Bon Appetiteemployees, as I discovered, travel in packs and their conversations are based around working too many hours andgriping about a certain arch-enemy that someone shouldnt have high-fived.

The only relief I had inside was in the friends I made onboard. The first was the emergency telephone bolted to the leftside; I knew I could depend on it for rescue if suddenly I had to call someone warning them I was hurling helplesslyfrom the fifth floor to the first. My other friends came in the form of buttons: one read, push in case of emergency,and the other, push in case of fire. God save the poor soul who ever gets trapped inside that wretched box during afire.

Judging by the mustard colored walls that fade into a tope ceiling, one can tell Adolf Loos had no part in its interiordesign, but still, the rusted metal floor made of six uneven panels gave a sense of homethat is if home was SanQuentin. Two USF event staff entered nextpuzzled looks and odd stares were exchangedthen out of no where theshorter of the two spoke up, You are just hanging out in this thing. She had figured me out in less than three looks so Ihalf-heartedly agreed. Apparently the USF event staff stipend their wages with odd jobs as psychics. She then said,You should get a job at Rasputin's. They have a guy there who just rides up and down, but he has a stool. Laughterensued and they stepped off no later than they could.

This was to be my last encounter with human life before the elevator idled at the second floor, the Bon Appetite kitchen,

for fifteen solitary minutes. As time passed, the increasing loneliness brought about a certain insanity and I concludedmy worst fear would be realized if someone stole my shoes, leaving my bare feet without defense on the soiled floor.On the other side of the dingy silver door, I could hear a strange buzzing mixed with the hybrid language of Spanish andChinese used by the cooks. The only other noise was an out of tune whistle, which I soon tried to match.

In a brief moment of sanity, I decided I needed to return to the real world, outside this mind trap. Pushing the third floorbutton, the elevator lurched up one floor and the doors slid open. As I retreated from this travesty and looked back, Isaw a green sign printed with white lettering. I could only wonderif I called 422-6464, would the permits for thiselevator really be on file? --J. Marx

Harney Redux

Is it odd to reveal that I have spent somewhat ample time in elevators before? Okay, making elevators plural may be astretch, but I have dedicated countless evenings over the years to the enjoyment received from being enclosed in theWestin St. Francis glass elevators. Granted, I am always accompanied by my best friend and he, regrettably, gets asmuch entertainment as I do from riding up and down the thirty plus floored hotel, but maybe my experience in Harneyselevator would be of equal amusement. It does not boast a view of Union Square--or any view at all, for that matter--butit does attract the various San Francisco college student which, depending upon their character, could possibly make upfor a lack of aesthetic appeal. At least, thats what I was hoping.Approaching the corner where the Harney elevator resides I was pleased to see that the doors were already opening. Amale student wearing glasses and a nylon jacket was waiting outside. Grasping a somewhat suitcase-looking backpackon wheels, I knew that he would be my first travel companion. Politely, he let me enter first, where I made my way tothe back corner of the elevator. Not making any attempt to push a button, I patiently waited as he wheeled in hisbelongings and looked at me before pushing the button for level four. I smiled at him. Level four seemed just great to

me.

As the elevator slowly began its ascend, I took in my surroundings. All four steel walls were visibly scratched andnicked from years worth of students with apparently nothing better to do than make their car keys unusually useful. Thefloor was scuffed and dirty as if revealing its age and the dim light above me seemed to let out a rattling sound thatresembled that of white noise that can occasionally be present in doctors offices. I anxiously awaited the arrival of ahorrid smell, which seemed appropriate considering the setting, but none appeared. So far, I couldnt complain.


8/15

When the elevator reached level four my suitcase-toting friend started towards the door. After a slight head nod, heexited.

Five seconds later, he reappeared.The doors barely had time to close before he realized that, in fact, he was on the wrong floor. Noticing that I had yet topush a button towards any destination, I offered him up the fact that I actually didnt have one. Explaining that my plan

was to hang out for a while longer, he laughed and said, I might as well make it worth your while! Before I couldinquire what he meant, the boy with the glasses and backpack on wheels jumped in front of me and quickly pushed thebutton for every floor of the building. Immediately, floors 1-5 were lit up and anticipating our arrival. I let out asurprised laugh and we were on our way.

Eventually reaching level three he waved goodbye as he wheeled his backpack out the door and left me by myself withat least three more floors of stops to fulfill.

The next ten minutes were quite uneventful. I had a slight feeling that a stomach ache was developing, partly due to thefact that the elevator circus ride my friend in glasses had left me with did not travel in order, and partly due to the lackof fresh air.

As if reading my thoughts, the elevator doors opened and in stepped an older man with a pencil behind his ear. Heavoided conversation during our encounter with one another, and when the door opened he gave me a peculiar glancewhen I told him I wouldnt be getting off. He exited, and again I was left alone in the dismal box.A few more minutes passed and the doors reopened. It was the same man I had just seen, pencil still lodged between hisear and receding hairline.

Apparently, this was an elevator full of repeat customers.Well, my lady, we meet again, he smiled. I graciously acknowledged his presence and exchanged pleasantries, whichmostly consisted of him laughing at his own jokes upon hearing my purposes for riding the elevator.

As my Harney elevator experience came to a close I craved both hand soap and sunlight. Exiting the elevator I realizedthat although amusing, my afternoons event did not ignite the desire for a repeat performance. I think Ill stick to the

Westin St. Francis. --K. Crozier

POSTED BY . . . . J .MICHAEL ROBERTSON AT 2:14 PM3 COMMENTST U E S D A Y , O C T O B E R 2 5 , 2 0 0 5The Quiet Bosnian by Sophie ParrishThe sound of hot, rattling pots and the smell of fresh baked bread spread into the cozy two-bedroom apartment. AtifBeganovic sits contently on his couch, watching the local KRON 4 News show on his on 48-inch flat screen TV. His tanChihuahua Tino is tucked under his arm and gnawing a large dog bone while Atif watches the on-going destruction inIraq. The screen is filled with women crying, men yelling and people being carried off in stretchers. Smoke and gun firespray across the sky.

As calmly as Atif sits, it is hard to imagine that this Bosnian native has also experienced the same kind of terror,destruction and fear during the war Bosnia a decade ago. He and his family have been refugees twice, forced out fromBosnia, then from Germany. He has been through six years of displacement, worry for his family and trying to find apeaceful and accepting place to raise his children.

Now settled in America, Atif, 55, recounts this modern tragedy and the terror and persecution he and his family faced."What a lot of people don't realize is that (those who fought one another) are all Bosnians, we are all born in Bosnia, weall look the same, we all lived together, it is only our religions that made us different," Atif says with his heavy accent.

The country of Yugoslavia -- which came apart in the Nineties -- integrated the Bosnian Muslims, OrthodoxSerbians/Nationalists and the Catholic Croatians. Before the war everyone lived in peace and being a Muslim did notcreate tension, Atif says. But as the country was falling apart, Serbs who had served in the Yugoslavian army stole the

army planes, guns, grenades and ammunition. "The Serbians planned to take over Bosnia and Croatia to make a bigSerbia," says Atif.

That's how the war began. Later the Croats turned against the Bosnians, the majority of whom were Muslims, andsupported the anti-Muslim warfare. Atif says the war only seemed to be about the Croat and Serbian pursuit of Bosnianland, but it was the unmistakable genocide of 200,000 Bosnians that proves it was because of religious reasons, also."Slobodan Milosevic, who was the Serbian President before and during the war and Franjo Tudjman, the CroatianPresident, wanted to make an agreement to divide former Yugoslavia into Serbia and Croatia, and ridding the countries
http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2006/09/seven-ways-of-looking-at-elevator.htmlhttp://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2006/09/seven-ways-of-looking-at-elevator.htmlhttp://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=115809620010240571http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=115809620010240571http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=115809620010240571http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=115809620010240571http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=115809620010240571http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2006/09/seven-ways-of-looking-at-elevator.html


9/15

of the Muslims", Atif says.

As Atif delves into the past, the room gradually assumes an intense and somber tone. Atif remembers when the warstarted, and suddenly his words pour out as he recollects the details of the first day they were attacked.

"I was at home, my wife was cooking and our two children were in our house," Atif says. "I was working on a car in my

garage. I heard planes fly overhead. I thought it was just a military practice. Many of my Bosnian neighbors came out oftheir houses to see the planes. These planes then started to strafe, but it wasn't until a couple of people got injured thatwe knew that this was a war."

Atif's blue eyes flash with sadness. He says that from then on, every night Serbian soldiers would attack whole familiesin their homes, often killing and injuring them. Street by street they came. The Serbian soldiers had stolen the darkgreen uniforms of the now-disbanded Yugoslavian army, with a star symbol on their caps. But later they made their ownuniforms, similar to the US camouflage design. "People became very scared. By day the Serbians would drive by in ared van, which we called the 'Scorpion'. When they would see a Muslim on the street they would stop and attack theman or woman. Sometimes the Bosnian would be left injured, and sometimes they were left dead," says Atif as thetension rises in his voice. Atif's two sons, then 15 and 7, attended school until a classmate attacked his older son. Evenhis son's Serbian friend had turned against him.

Before the war, in 1991 their oldest child Alma had gone to Germany to work. After hearing about an approaching war,she told Atif that she would stay in Germany and get papers for the family to travel and live there. Her decision wouldultimately save the lives of Atif and his family.

As the war progressed in Bosnia, mosques were destroyed, women were raped and even children were killed. Thesoldiers wanted to scare the Bosnians out of their homes and out of Bosnia, Atif says. This tactic proved successful, andeveryday hundreds of Bosnians fled to the UN refugee camp in Croatia.

After a year of on-going violence and fear, in August 1993 Atif decided to flee with his family to Croatia. What madehim finally decide to go was a sight he will never forget. "I saw my cousin's wife dead in their house," says Atif. Hiscousin told Atif the Serbians came to their house and attacked him. Thinking he was dead -- he pretended to be -- the

soldiers were about to leave when his wife began screaming about her 'dead' husband. Hearing her screams, the Serbsshot her point blank in the head. The couple also had two children who were hiding in the house. The older boy told Atifthat he covered his sister's mouth to keep her quiet, so that the soldiers would not find them.

After this horrific event, Atif's cousin and many neighbors urged Atif to leave and take his two sons and wife to Croatia.They left. With two bags of belongings they went to the refugee camp to wait for the papers that would allow them tolive in Germany. Alma kept her word, and in September 1993 Atif took his family to Germany.

"We were transported by bus from Croatia to Munich, Germany," Atif says. 'It was so good to see my daughter and be afamily again. But only three days later we had to leave Alma and check into the refugee center."

At the refugee center, officials accused Atif of illegally crossing the border. He argued with them and within two days

the paperwork was filed and they were sent on to the other side of Germany, to a big building full of refugees. Atif andhis family had to move three times while living in Germany. The longest period of time they spent in one apartment wasfrom 1994 to 1998. "It was a seven-story building, and we had one bedroom for the four of us, in a three-bedroomapartment. We shared the small kitchen and bathroom with two other families. Every week packages of food weredropped off to us. There was no private phone, only electricity and water," he says.

Finally after five years of sharing tiny apartments with up to 11 people, Atif and his family were given their own onebedroom apartment. "This was our time to relax, and not feel so overcrowded," Atif says. Atif says they spent the yearre-generating and enjoying their privacy. They were just trying to live a somewhat normal life.

But the drama was still not over for Atif and his family. Having re-established himself in Germany, learning German,working again as a car mechanic and sending his two sons off to school, Atif was shocked when a letter arrived from the

German Government. "It stated that the war in Bosnia was now over and I had to return home with my family," Atifsays, his hands raised up in frustration. "Where were we supposed to go? I didn't know if Bosnia was even livable! Wewere not allowed to stay in Germany; they would have kicked us out if we did not leave."

Atif returned to Bosnia, the first time since they had left. He saw the amount of destruction Bosnia had endured."Looking around the blown up neighborhood, houses fill of bullet holes and at our house, I knew there was no future forus in Bosnia, ' he says.


10/15

Atif immediately applied for a visa to the US, for the German government had given him two options, to either go backto Bosnia or travel to the United States. "It was yet another move, a new culture and another language to learn," he says.

Leaving Alma in Germany and taking only four suitcases filled with their belongings, Atif and his family set off forAmerica. One of Atif's cousins who lives in Oakland, California, suggested he come and stay in the same apartmentcomplex.

Settling into the American lifestyle has been hard for Atif. "I have found it difficult to learn English," he says. "Whenpeople don't understand you and you don't understand them, it is easy to be taken advantage of," says Atif. Hecomplains about the excessive health insurance expenses in the US; in Bosnia health care was free for everyone. "Allpeople want here is money, you want to get a health check up, you have to pay, you want to have eye surgery, yourinsurance covers only one third, so you have to pay, car insurance, you have to pay. Everything, everything, people herejust want money," he says, throwing his hands up.

For all his frustrations and complaints, Atif has done well in the US. His sons and his wife have joined him. He beganwork as a successful car mechanic at a Mobil gas station in Oakland and now for a Union 76 gas station in Piedmont. Infive years Atif has adequately established himself here. His older son, now 27, is also a car mechanic and his youngerson, now 20, is working as a manufacturing technician for Intel.

Atif says leaving his daughter in Germany was one of the hardest things they had to do, but he is proud that she isrunning a very successful Japanese/Chinese restaurant with her husband. Atif says his main reason he came to the USwas to give his sons a better life. He plans to live here at least until retirement, and then perhaps go back to Bosnia. Nowan American citizen, Atif is a manager at his new apartment complex. He and his wife lead a fairly quiet lifestyle, forwhich they are grateful, he says. During summer they enjoy going to the Sacramento lakes, and taking their dog forwalks around the neighborhood. Atif reflects on the war and says that he is so lucky to have not lost anyone in hisimmediate family. He knows of many parents who have lost a couple of children.

He prefers a quiet lifestyle, he says. His blue eyes light up and he chuckles. "A good thing about living here is that thereare not too many surprises," he says.POSTED BY . . . . J .MICHAEL ROBERTSON AT 9:57 PM0 COMMENTS

M O N D A Y , O C T O B E R 1 0 , 2 0 0 5The Scene at Subway by Douglas MadeyWithout a smile the teenage girl with shoulder length black hair asks, "What can I get you?"

A quick response from the man across the counter, and the girl reacts. She turns her back and reaches inside a Windex-streaked bread oven.

As if its a task that shes done a thousand times, the young woman places a 12-inch loaf of wheat bread on a whitecutting board covered with crumbs. She pulls two clear plastic gloves from a small box to her left and blows into eachone, making it easier to stuff her hands inside.

She reaches for a knife and slices the loaf of wheat in the middle, but not all the way through. Then, opening the bread

as if it were a book, she sets it down in front of her. As if folding laundry on a countertop, the young woman rolls slicesof processed turkey and white cheese, and places them on the bread.

Sliding the unfinished sandwich in front of silver bins filled with purple onions, olives, green peppers, and several othervegetable choices, she prepares to present the man with his options.

The girl looks up from the sandwich and makes eye contact with the man across the counter. He looks down and makesa large circling motion over the vegetables with his index finger. In an orderly progression, the girl distributes hisvegetable choices upon the sandwich in front of her.

Unable to close up the sandwich without spilling its contents, the girl rolls it up in a piece of wax paper to keep it tightlypressed together. As quickly as the process began, the girl slices through the wax paper and sandwich, places it next to

the register, and walks back to the front of the sandwich line to greet the next customer.POSTED BY . . . . J .MICHAEL ROBERTSON AT 10:04 PM0 COMMENTSOur Darling Clementine by Theresia OtaTucked between 2nd and 3rd Avenue on Clement Street is a gem of romantic French cooking. Two blocks, and muchmore, separate Clementine from the Chinese bakeries and dull cafes so typical of this part of Clement. Named by thechef/owner, Didier Labbe, for both the street and the orange, Clementine's menu featured everything that should be on aclassic little French restaurant's menu, that is to say, nothing was unexpected, not even that each item on the menu wasfirst written in French, and then explained in English below. The appetizers featured foie gras with caramelized apples,
http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/quiet-bosnian-by-sophie-parrish.htmlhttp://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/quiet-bosnian-by-sophie-parrish.htmlhttp://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=113030366240040882http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=113030366240040882http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=113030366240040882http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/scene-at-subway-by-douglas-madey.htmlhttp://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/scene-at-subway-by-douglas-madey.htmlhttp://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112900736786074195http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112900736786074195http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112900736786074195http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112900736786074195http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=113030366240040882http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112900736786074195http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=113030366240040882http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112900736786074195http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/scene-at-subway-by-douglas-madey.htmlhttp://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=113030366240040882http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/quiet-bosnian-by-sophie-parrish.html


11/15

and escargots with garlic butter; but we decided on the asparagus, endive and crab salad with aged balsamicvinegar($9.75), as well as the porcini mushroom ravioli with truffle oil and cherry tomatoes ($8.50).

For such a small restaurant, the wine menu was quite impressive, featuring wines from many different countries,including not only the obvious -- good old U.S.A. and France -- but also Argentina, Greece and Israel. Despite theworldwide temptations, my friends and I decided on the only Pinot Gris from California on the menu ($39). Not a

spectacular wine, it was very middle of the road, not too much alcohol, not too much fruit, and not too heavy. It was awarm day and a wise choice that paired well with most of the items we ordered.

Our appetizers were before our eyes within minutes of ordering them, barely allowing us the opportunity to admire theromantic interior. It is lovely. The walls are a creamy tangerine, with mirrors in detailed gold frames, and the perimeterof the restaurant is a bench upholstered in a sage green and gold fabric with pillows to match. But the porcini mushroomravioli brought our attention back to the food and proved my theory that it would take a fool to ruin an ingenious Italianidea, such as the aqueducts and pasta. The ravioli were topped with a light mushroom broth, and the porcini-Parmesanesan filling gave the dish a delicious, warm, and rustic flavor that was enhanced and brightened by the cherrytomatoes. The crab salad, however enticing the presentation, was unimpressive. The crab appeared to have been freshfrom the freezer, and tasted more like sea water than crab, with similar texture. It was served alongside endive thattasted very much like an old news paper. Still, the dish was not a total failure, since the asparagus was grilled perfectly

and the balsamic vinegar that complemented it off was truly aged, not something to be found at any supermarket onsale.

The entree selection on the menu was as definitive of French cuisine as the appetizers, featuring such dishes as roastedpoussoCornishnish hens)with garlic, duck breast with orange reduction, and bistro style rib eye steak wFrenchench fries.My party selected the roasted poussoin with garlic, the filet of salmon with portabella mushroom and fennel, as well asthe rack of lamb with parsley and provencal herbs with spinach fondue. The presentation of all of the entrees was in theclassic style, not an uptight Parisian style. The focus was the beauty of the food. Nowhere did you get the idea that therestaurant had hired an architect to put their dishes together. The poussoin was roasted to perfection, without a singletaste too dry from being overcooked. The rack of lamb was the definition of medium rare, the herbs and seasoning wereexcellent; even the steamed fondue of spinach was lightly salted and fresh. But the highlight of the entrees was withouta doubt the salmon. If it came from the freezer, I was fooled. The entire filet was delicate and moist, with just the right

amount of salt, pepper, and dill, so that all of the flavor was coming from the fish; paired with the fennel and portabellamushroom, the chef allowed the star of the dish to be the freshness of the ingredients.

We had reservations for 6:30, and seating was immediate, although we would not have been opposed to a short waitoutside of the restaurant's adorable dark green gold-lettered facade. The hostess, pleasantly asked in a lovely Frenchaccent if we would like to sit in the front, near the windows and entering guests, Since we wanted privacy, we chose theback. We noticed that even when the restaurant became busier, the tables in front near the hostess station were neveroccupied.

Once we were seated with menus in hand, our waiter for the evening greeted us with a little speech in French that, bythe end of it, had me and my two friends hanging on his every word. Simply the epitome of charm, Arno, our waiter,had learned our names and was shaking our hands before we knew it; plus he never let our wine or water glasses go

approach half empty. Arno's attentiveness was a remarkable feat considering he was the only waiter in the restaurant formore than a dozen tables and his charisma brought smiles to the faces of every guest he served.

In fact, by the time our entrees were cleared from our table, Arno knew us so well that he told me what I would enjoyfor dessert. Actually, the most impressive aspect of Clementine's presentation was the dessert menu. Unable to decideon one dessert for each of us, my friends and I shared the vanilla creme brulee, the fresh apple tart with caramel icecream, and the caramelized French toast with hazelnut ice cream. Each of the desserts was marvelous. The burnt sugarthat topped the creme brulee cracked like a perfectly thin layer of golden stained glass.The crust of the fresh apple tartwas flakey and the apples were so fresh they maintained their crispness though sliced as thin as tissue paper; and thecaramel ice cream that melted all over the tart, left our mouths with the sensation that we were eating a delicate caramelapple pie.

Before Arno could recommend it, I had decided on the caramelized French toast with hazelnut ice cream, as it was aremarkable notion amongst its traditional counterparts. The textures alone in this dish were fantastic. The first taste isthe crisp caramel dissolving and crunching, followed by the velvety smooth, and lightly cinnamoned toast, veryreminiscent of the velvety smoothness of foie gras, the creamy, cold, melting hazelnut ice cream, was the grand finale toour whole experience, the experience of a little piece of France only a few blocks from USF

Clementine126 Clement Street (2nd/3rd Avenues)


12/15

(415)-387-0408

RATINGOverall: * * * *Food: * * *Service: * * * * *

Noise: ! !Price: $ $ $

KEYOverall/Food/ Service* = not completely awful* * = good* * * = really quite good* * * * = Almost Perfect* * * * * = Amazing Perfection from food to price

Noise

! = very quiet! ! = pleasantly noisy but easy to converse! ! ! = must raise your voice to be heard! ! ! ! = must yell to be heard! ! ! ! ! = cannot converse/ near deafness

Price ( per entree)$ = $ 0- $10$ $ = $10 - $17$ $ $ = $15 - $23$ $ $ $ = $20- $30$ $ $ $ $ = must have platinum Am Ex!

POSTED BY . . . . J .MICHAEL ROBERTSON AT 5:35 PM1 COMMENTSF R I D A Y , O C T O B E R 0 7 , 2 0 0 5An Independent Journey by Jonahlynn SabadoOne day, Natalie Yang was flipping through a copy of Time magazine in the Philippines and came across an articleabout San Francisco. As she looked through the article, she read that San Francisco was the best city in the world.

She thought to herself, I wouldnt mind living there.

After reading that article, she became attracted to this city because it presented so much diversity. It was basicallyeverything that I was looking for to experience something different in life. Oftentimes, Ive also wondered what itwould be like to live out on my own, she says.

As Natalie prepared herself to move to America, she imagined San Francisco to be very sunny and cool. My dad andmy older brother were the only two people in my family who had been to San Francisco but they didnt really tell mewhat to expect, she says. In the movies, she saw that people wore summer clothing in California so most of the clothesshe packed were for warm weather. Little did she know that it was foggy and chilly year-round. As soon as I arrived atmy grandmas apartment in San Francisco, I literally stayed in bed the whole day, she says.

But Natalie knew that she couldnt hide under the covers for long, as there was so much for her toexplore on her own.

Natalies journey from the Philippines to America was not just a typical vacation from her home land. It was a journeyof a new beginning, a beginning that she hoped entitled her to achieve bigger and better things without the supervisionof her parents and family she left behind. It was a journey toward personal independence.

Coming to America would be a way for Natalie to set herself apart from most of her former colleagues in Manila,Philippines. Pretty much everyone back home wasat the same level and I wanted to deviate from that. Even if Igraduated from one of the top schools back home, I would be competing with about thousands more from the sameschool, vying for the same job, she says of her schooling in the Philippines. Furthermore, she says that her college backhome emphasized academics, leaving her no time for extracurricular activities because of the weight of her classes. As aresult, Natalie decided not just to come to America but to transfer to the University of San Francisco.

However, it wasnt easy convincing her parents to let her go.
http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/our-darling-clementine-by-theresia-ota.htmlhttp://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/our-darling-clementine-by-theresia-ota.htmlhttp://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112899148232470440http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112899148232470440http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112899148232470440http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112899148232470440http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112899148232470440http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/our-darling-clementine-by-theresia-ota.html


13/15

Shy, modest and timid, Natalie lived a sheltered life and usually depended on her parents for allowances, lunchexpenses, books and other school materials. Whenever I needed something, my parents would give it to me rightaway, she says. Back home, she also counted on her familys driver to take her to and from school, and a maid thatwould clean up in her room and around the house. But her decision to come to America meant she had to become moreindependent. Although she was shy, she considered herself to be adventurous, always wanting to try something new.

While my friends were used to their comfort and lifestyle back home, I felt that I wanted something more in life,something that I wasnt accustomed to, she says.

During her first few months in San Francisco, Natalie had to study local maps and bus routes in order to get aroundbecause she did not know how to drive nor did she own a license. This became a proud change for her because shedidnt need a personal driver as she did back home. Likewise, at her grandmas house, Natalie would do her ownlaundry and clean her own room. Though these things were a first step, things she could do on her own without the helpof others, Natalie also knew that she eventually had to start mingling with other people.

Natalie didnt really experience culture shock when she came to the States because she was exposed to many Americanmovies back home. The labels Americans usedgeeks, jocks,cheerleaders, the popular crowd -- did notsurprise her. On the other hand, she says it was difficult for her to adjust the way she interacted with Americans.

Nobody ever noticed her heavy accent whenever Natalie spoke; however, she was always concerned about it. Also,although she knew how to speak English fluently, she was so accustomed to speaking her native language, tagalog (adialect in the Philippines). I had to adapt to speaking straight English rather than mixing half English and halfFilipino, she says.

As an international student, Natalie was only allowed to work on campus. During her first semester, she got a job at thecoffee shop in Lone Mountain where she worked 10 to 20 hours a week. As she earned money, Natalie learnedsomething else: how to budget her expenses. At the coffee shop, she also started meeting new people. Because she hadto constantly talk to a lot of people, this helped her to step out of her shyness. She also began to recite more frequentlyin classes. Her new skills also encouraged her to become involved with organizations on campus such as theInternational Student Association, which she gained presidency of during her last year at USF. There, she met more andmore people.

Natalie graduated from USF with a bachelors degree in graphic design in May 2005, two years after coming toAmerica. But Natalie did not want to move back home just yet. She had more going to do. She wanted to gain workexperience before settling back home. This made it tough for her because she was forced to find a job which was theonly way she could stay in America. During the summer, she applied to numerous internships in Californiaand notjust in San Francisco. I believe my experiences so far have made me more talkative, independent and responsible. Butafter living with my grandma for two years and having her pay for my tuition, I wanted to break away from dependingon her and really start living on my own.

Escaping the cold weather in the Bay Area, Natalie now works as a full-time intern at Hershey Associates, a graphicdesign and marketing firm in Santa Monica, where she now lives with two other roommates. Now in sunny, laidbackSouthern California, she says with a warm smile (a really warm smile), she can return to sporting her summer wardrobe

all year long!POSTED BY . . . . J .MICHAEL ROBERTSON AT 8:30 PM0 COMMENTST H U R S D A Y , O C T O B E R 0 6 , 2 0 0 5I Left My Heart in Mauritania by Douglas MadeyThe smell of chicken boiling and the sound of a newborn crying fills Ibrahima and Julie Wagne's studio apartment inHayes Valley. Leaned back comfortably on the sofa with his legs crossed, Ibrahima Wagne pops an African date intohis mouth and spits the pit out into his hand.

"These are a fruit from Africa, I bought them this morning," said Wagne, as he offered up some of the dates that wereon a small yellow dish. Although he is able to get produce from his native country here in San Francisco, Wagneremains well aware of the 6,000 plus miles that separate him from his Mauritanian hometown in West Africa. Walkingdown a busy San Francisco city street to the produce market makes the idea of an unpaved West African road seem like

a world away.

Born and raised in the small village of Bogme, Mauritania, Wagne graduated from college and went on to earn his PhDat the University of Badj Moctar in Algeria. With only 25% of his high school classmates continuing on to college,Wagne believes himself to be a rarity with his doctorate in biochemistry. Even more of a rarity, he says, was hisdecision to choose service over a large income and work for the Peace Corps in Mauritania.

This decision would ultimately change the course of his life. During his time at the Peace Corps where Wagne worked
http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/independent-journey-by-jonahlynn.htmlhttp://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/independent-journey-by-jonahlynn.htmlhttp://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112874255085662101http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112874255085662101http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112874255085662101http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112874255085662101http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=15990215&postID=112874255085662101http://bigbigfeat.blogspot.com/2005/10/independent-journey-by-jonahlynn.html


14/15

in cross-cultural training, teaching newvolunteers how to speak Fulani, an African language with French origins. One of his students, a young woman fromKansas named Julie, caught his eye and soon the two were dating. Within a year after the relationship began, Ibrahimaand Julie were contemplating marriage.

While in Mauritania, under the traditional roles of a Muslim society, the couple lived in separate residences. "It was fine

in Africa", Wagne said, "but we had to see if the relationship would work in America".

Wagne believed that the differences of working and living together in the United States, opposed to Mauritania, wouldreveal any unseen problems with the relationship that may not have been a consideration during theirtime together at the Peace Corps. Financial responsibilities in the U.S., such as rent and food, seemed to be the majorconcern for Wagne as he contemplated the future of their relationship in a different country.

During his work with the Peace Corps Wagne applied to the University of California, Berkeley, with the intention ofstudying English, while at the same time testing the strengths of his and Julie's relationship. In the fall of 2002,Wagne obtained a student visa and moved to San Francisco with Julie where he studied English and, as he had hoped,grew closer to the woman he loved.

After one semester, the resolute couple legally became Mr. and Mrs. Ibrahima and Julie Wagne. It was a simpleceremony, taking place at San Francisco City Hall in front of just three close friends. No big reception followed becauseaccording to Wagne, who scratches his head and smiles, saying only, "we had other things to do."

Just six weeks ago the Wagnes celebrated the birth of their first child, a girl they named Aissata. The baby was namedafter Wagne's mother, which in Mauritania is a common way to show respect to your family. The idea of family andtogetherness is strongly shared amongst this newly extended family unit.While Wagne talks about his wife and him raising a child, Julie Wagne sits in front of the desk in their bedroom gentlyrocking Aissata in her arms. "Having a baby", says Wagne as he pauses to gatherthe words to say, "is not hard, but it's expensive," hinting gently at the strain a new child can have on the dynamics of arelationship.

While Julie Wagne cares for the newborn, Mr. Wagne continues our conversation, busy preparing dinner and tidying upthe kitchen by putting away dishes from the dry rack. He says that Aissata wakes the couple up during the night and thather crib takes away from the already cramped little bedroom, but his expression as describes the inconvenience suggeststhe amount of joy that the two seem to get from looking at their child could fill a Pacific Heights mansion.

And just because the Wagne's of San Francisco are faraway from the Wagne's of Mauritania, does not imply a loss ofcontact with one another. Wagne keeps in touch with his family by calling at least once a week.

At 36 he has grown out of being homesick. With a quiet tone of certainty to his voice, Wagne says he doesn't "reallymiss" his many relatives in Mauritania. They're "a family, and I know they are there for me."

Wagne is now most concerned with providing for his wife and baby. With Julie Wagne home all day with the baby,

Wagne continues to work full time as a "bar back," assisting the bartenders with making drinks, at the Zuni Cafe, thewell-known San Francisco restaurant.

He considers himself financially stable. He is more concerned with San Francisco's unique gap in standard of living andits effect on his child. In a city such as San Francisco where the number of homeless seems to equal that of the wealthy,that gap is something Wagne finds hard to assimilate given his background. "In Mauritania homelessness is a choice,"he says, noting that in Mauritania anyone could go back to his or her family for shelter instead of living on the street."Here you can walk down the street and see someone in a Porsche and someone sleeping on the ground at the sametime."

Wagne hopes to move his family to Mauritania -- if husband, wife and daughter have visas that would allow back andforth travel. The Wagnes plan on living the next five to 10 years alternating homes between San Francisco and West

Africa. Wagne believes that it is important for his daughter to get a good perspective on where she comes from.

Through raising Aissata in both West Africa and the United States, Wagne hopes his daughter will have a better-rounded viewpoint of the important values and morals that he sees as necessary in an ever-changing world."Money," he says, "is not the base of success."

He wants his daughter to understand that success doesn'tfe doesn t come from owning expensive cars. Wagne isfocused on providing a balanced life for his daughter. He believes that he and his wife can do that best by partially


15/15

bringing her up in West Africa. "Many times people can raise a kid, but they don't build family," he says.

Until Wagne is able to create the framework for a future of his family that incorporates the best of his parents' twocultures, he will continuewalking to work past the homeless of San Francisco on his way to help serve $12 drinks to the Porsche-driving elites ofthe city.

feauture stories

Documents