sans

The best oatmeal raisin cookie I've ever had was from a store in SFO as I waited for my delayed flight back to LA. I had just ended a weekend trip there, spending 48 hours in the golden gate city with one of my closest friends, C. C is one of my closest in many ways except geographical; she moved to San Jose after we graduated from our master's program last year. The last time I had seen her was back in April when she flew here (well, Burbank), and it was only fair I went the distance this time around.

SF was something more than just a tick off a continental travel bucket list for me. In the midst of my recent professional transitions, an opportunity to work there presented itself to me. In the span of two weeks, I looked extensively, almost obsessively, into the possibility of a life there. Housing was more expensive than LA, but the compensation package came with a modest bump to cover that. Public transit was far more palatable there, which has always been a sore spot for me living here. It's windy, it's colder, I'd finally have more use out of my puffers and fleeces. I'd be moving to a new law firm, a new city. It was exhilarating. Scary, but exhilarating.

I'm typing all this as I am settling into my new job, starting to organize my moving boxes, and putting in my application for my new apartment. I'm doing all this while keeping my 213 number, and moving only approximately 20 zip codes, a 20-minute drive away. I eventually chose to stay in LA.

It was my fig tree of the Plathian persuasion, except I had made peace with my chosen fig, left that other fig on that tree, and had cast both fig and tree away into the back abyss of my mind. Or so I thought. Sunday morning and a Waymo ride to the wrong dim sum place left C and me stranded in the middle of FiDi. We figured it would be a waste of the Bay Area sunshine to sit in a car or bus to get to Chinatown. About 10 minutes into our meander west along Broadway, we walked past a narrow street I had become deeply familiar with on Google Maps. I let out a gasp and stopped in my tracks. C asked what was wrong. I pointed.

“Let’s go look,” she said. “What? No.” “Come on, it’s Sunday. Nobody will see us.”

We strolled down the alley-like street. It was quiet, as Sundays usually are. It was neat and clean. The office was housed in a small red brick building that stood steadfast, with a gate that kept us out but could not stop us from peeking in. It looked cosy, and I felt a pang.

I tell myself that I don't regret things (I do), and that I believe I make good choices (I don't). But truly, I don't regret choosing to stay in LA. I am not done with this city, I have friends here, unfinished experiences left to explore. I made a career move that professionally sated me. Still, in the privacy of my mind, I allow myself to wonder about the what-ifs.

Sunday evening and I am at SFO. My United flight has been delayed as the incoming flight is late. C and I had an early dinner and I was not hungry, but the traditional rules of mealtime do not apply at airport terminals. I didn't need an entire Panda Express plate but a tiny sweet treat seemed reasonable. A few steps away from my gate was a Klein's Deli.

Now, the litmus test for any good bakery that sells cookies is whether they will warm up the cookie for you. I know that sounds like the bare minimum, but you'd be surprised at the number of bakeries ill-equipped with an oven of cookie-warming capabilities. I always ask, but I wouldn't be hopeful. So you can only imagine my delight when the nice lady at the counter told me she could warm up my oatmeal raisin cookie.