Soakin' Up San Francisco

Since I began running around my new city of San Francisco this time last year, I have pondered the reasons why I stick with it. Running is literally never easy for me; neither is waking up before 6am. On the other hand, the physical and mental benefits to this hobby, this outlet and [conveniently] form of exercise? Countless. Here are my top ten (sunrises aside).  1. It's faster than walking. 2. Running is meditative. It allows me to observe my thoughts and become in touch with only my body, my breathing and my physical self.  3. Running is... natural. Fight or flight instincts evoked by stress at work or emotional dissonance are instantly remedied (especially since fighting is frowned upon at the office).  4. Running is strengthening. It feels easier every time.  5. Running feels productive. With simple swift motions, I can exercise nearly every inch of my body and cover massive ground - both literally and metaphorically.  6. The road doesn't judge me. I can

A few nights ago, as I meandered through the muggy streets of Manhattan, I felt like an awkward-yet-optimistic blend of Hannah Horvath and Kimmy Schmidt. I ventured back to my midtown hotel room, channeled my inner (and wholly neurotic) panty-wearing Carrie Bradshaw and began writing down these reflections in my purple Moleskin journal.  The hawker stalls of Madison Square Park that night were a warm burst of familiarity, reminding me of the Li Jiang night markets in China and crepe-filled Parisian nights all at once. Entrepreneurs counted their cash loot and what looked like [unanimously] locals finished their hip bottled sodas. The summer night sky didn’t quite “death rattle” - as a local New Yorker had described the sound of September - but rather whimpered and dribbled on me here and there as I wandered home. Wait, was that rain? Or simply overhead sewage?  When I think of or peruse New York City, I think of so many people and things - both real and born of fiction. No mat

I have always been a girl who writes yet afraid to call myself a writer. Since I was a little girl with wide-ruled spiral notebooks out the wazoo , I would make time daily and nightly to scribble about my day, doodle my childhood milestones, scribble my married name in hearts and dedicate myself to poems and letters. My pen pals spanned from Gramz to my sisters, from my middle school friends via their Sequoia MS lockers to my classmates and travel buddies around the globe. I bought journals every month at the Scholastic Book Fair; I had a diary for every year or occasion, oftentimes filled them with Polaroids and magazine clippings in addition to deepest loves and fears. As I entered adulthood and began traveling, I moved my die-hard hobby from leather bound notebooks to what felt like a virtual billboard; somewhere I could bare my soul for the occasional road-tripping passerby across the world-wide web to see. It was frightening. As blogs often do, mine had a dual purpose; not on