Since I moved to San Francisco, I'd say I get asked if I'm Jewish around two or three times a week--it's always other Jews asking me, excited to confirm what they already suspected--yes, I'm Jewish. Being Jewish in San Francisco feels like I'm in a gang. It's like people are coming up to me, asking if I know the secret password or handshake. And when I tell them yes, they give me a serious nod. Right on. Way to be. I've got your back. I set off some serious jewdar for three individuals this week:

1. Pamela. My 38-year-old no longer potential roommate. I'm 24, practically 25. Yes, young. Pamela kept staring at me over her latte and excaliming "You're so little!" She's not the first person to say this to me. In college my nickname was Tiny. That got started because my mother used to leave messages on our answering machine in her thick New York accent, "Tiny Jew. Call your mother!" Also, my friends happen to have a few inches on me (few). But I just didn't like the way Pamela kept saying "You're so little!" I mean, she wasn't so big. She's the kind of person who likes to get right into it--within five minutes of meeting, she was asking if I had a happy childhood. Within ten minutes, "You're Jewish, right?" Oh yeah, obviously.

Then I felt compelled to qualify my Judaism. "I'm kind of a bad jew, but I feel very Jewish, culturally at least. Very into self-deprecating humor." I got a blank stare, an awkward silence, so I kept talking. I told Pam how I had lived next door to a rabbi and a Hebrew school teacher for the past two years--Shalom and Zimra. Yes, the rabbi's name is Shalom. They are one awesome set of Jews. Orthodox, but they definitely like to get racous for Shabbat dinner. My ex-boyfriend (not a jew) had never been to a Rosh Hoshana dinner. We went over to Zimra and Shalom's and they brought in the new year proper with gefilte fish, kugel and cheap vodka in abundance. Next thing I know my boyfriend's yelling "L'Chiam!" whispering to me that we should leave soon because it's a mitzvah to have sex on the Sabbath (didn't want to bring him down with a reminder that we were celebrating Rosh Hoshana). That was the most drunk I ever saw him during our entire two-year relationship. He was too hungover to go to work the next day. Kept mumbling about how Rosh Hoshana was a wild holiday. Zimra and Shalom, rock stars for sure. But Pam didn't seem too pleased with this story. She'd never heard of Orthodox like that. Then she gave me a bit from the Pam Hebrew experience--the rabbi at the temple she went to growing up never understood her, they never connected. I told her I had never felt much of a connection with my rabbi, Rabbi Weinberg either, though he had me convinced when he belted "This is the Torah!" holding the scrolls high above his head with quivering arms. I told her about Rabbi Lustic, who I really wanted to connect with, finer than a chocolate chip macaroon on Pesach. Pam and I, though both "of the tribe" (phrase I picked up at 3 AM in a dive bar) didn't seem to have the connection either.

The apartment hunt continues and the jew in me shines through. Moving on....

2. The other night I was at a party talking to a guy about the high school English class he teaches. So yeah, I totally enjoy getting sangria-faced and discussing the books I read in my high school English classes that floored me (Beloved, Of Mice and Men, The Things They Carried, Welcome to the Monkey House--fuck yeah baby). This guy tells me that he's getting ready to teach his tenth graders Night by, Elie Weisel, and I do some sighing, "Damn. Intensity." He looked up at me, cocked an eyebrow and said, "You're 'brew, right?"

"I'm who?" I asked staring at the now-empty cup I was holding. "Night just really effected me. It's like you can't function as a human being if you're in the middle of reading it. You can't--Oh 'brew!"

He smiled.

"Yeah," I said quietly, "I'm 'brew. Never heard that one before," looking down at my hands. "Been asked if I'm of the Tribe, down with Moses, etc. Interesting."

This guy had his septum pierced and he began absently nudging the small silver hoop and leaning toward me--already a close talker. "I'm 'brew too." (Did he wink?) "Night's such an important book."

Shortly thereafter he went to smoke a cigarette and I got more sangria, unable to stop "'brew too, 'brew too," from taking clumsy laps around my brain.

And then there was BTS.

3. "BTS Translation Services (BTS) provides translation and interpretation services for companies and individuals in any language, at any time and anywhere." Sounds good. Also, notary public. I didn't know about notary public up until a week ago. You see, my purse was stolen when I went to Barcelona in January and some crafty chap started making purchases all over Espana using my ATM card. Sure, I had reported the card as stolen, but somehow this did not put the kibosh on the spending. My bank started sending me these notices of charges in Barcelona (these charges had paragraph long descriptions in Spanish--comprehensive translation is in the works) although I had not actually been in Spain for many months. In fact on the date "Sarah Gurman" incognito person made these charges in Barcelona, the real Sarah Gurman was typing dejectedly at her desk in Animation Magazine's fine Westlake Village, CA office (approx. a 50 min. commute each way from Santa Monica). Fine. The bank said no problem. You didn't make these charges, we won't take the money out of your account, we just need you to sign a form that lists the charges as fraudulent--and you need to get the form notarized. Enter BTS translation Services.

These translation services are housed in an unassuming office--I would say no more than 500 sq. ft. Two women were manning the 6254 Geary Blvd ship that day, both had the impressive ability to project from a seated positon, yelling at each other in Russian from desks at opposite ends of the room. With nests of curly black hair and nearly full body coverage courtesy of animal print lycra, Veronika and Antonina were rocking a fantastic hybrid of Amazon woman and Jewish grandmother--not fucking around. When the bell above the door sounded its bing as I entered, Veronika and Antonina paused for moment, looked up at me and then began yelling at each other again. I knew immediately they were Jewish. In the midst of expertly delivering her counter-argument (amazing how you can hear sarcasm even if you don't understand the language), Veronika directed me with her eyes to the fraying orange chair in front of her desk.

A moment later, Antonina stood up, shook her arms over her head, revealing half-moon stains under each armpit, and stomped out, saying "Lunch" quietly as the door banged behind her.

"So what can I do for you?" Veronka asked.

I launched into my Barcelona purse debacle explanation, told her about the situation with my bank, the need for her fine notary services.

"Sure, sure," she said when I finished, batting her clumpy eyelashes and giving me a concerned look."You are from Russia yes?" she asked as she began stamping the paper work in the appropriate spots and marking x's for my signature.

"Russia. Um, my great grandparents are from there, but--"

"Polish too, no?" she pulled out a cigarette and laid it on her desk, then resumed her vigorous shuffling through the pile of papers. She maintained eye contact as her fingers had memorized the movement.

"Mm hmm. I have some Polish in me as well. So is it ready? Is it ok?" I asked anxiously looking over the forms she had nudged back to me.

"Yes, it's ready. Here's an envelope," she stood up and grabbed a book of matches and her cigarette. "I knew it! Most jews around here are from Poland and Russia."

"Huh." I said. "I'm not very religious I blurted out."

"You're a good girl Sarah--don't lick that envelope. It's dangerous. Use the tape."



Before I moved to San Francisco, I had many encounters with people who picked me out as Jewish as soon as they laid eyes on me. I have written about it in the past, but the sheer volume of people calling me out as Hebrew in San Francisco has started to change the way I look at the whole phenomenon. I used to have a negative reaction when people assumed I was Jewish and asked me about it, feeling judged somehow--thought they were overstepping a boundary. It still catches me off-guard, I suppose because I can't imagine ever saying that to someone I just met ("You 'brew?"), but I'm in such a transitional phase right now: new city, new job, etc.--so much feels uncertain for me. Having this one definite aspect of my identity is comforting in a way. It gives me something to hold on to. Besides, people here seem to have such a positive reaction when I tell them that they're right, I am Jewish.

I love my vices. That’s why I keep them around, put “my” in front of them. Suppose that’s true for most. But cigarettes-- what a charming, sexy, satisfying vice.

Just went on a trek for cigarettes and came back empty-handed (I’m using the word trek liberally, but the craving made it feel important, my fuckin nicotine pilgrimage).

I got home earlier and really wanted a cigarette. Wanted one all day. Actually all week, but didn’t realize that it was the thing giving me that itch until a half-hour ago. At the grocery store today, I peered over at the case where they keep them, by the registers, locked up tight, all tucked together in neat rows, special brands donning a two for one sign, little cellophane-wrapped boxes. A special trip necessary for the cashier in order to retrieve my lovely smokeable lovelies. Couldn’t bring myself to do it. Bought an extra carton of soy milk and thought I’d call it a night—living the life of a rock star over here. Then I got home, went inside my apartment, remembered that there was what I thought to be a half of a cigarette left over from a joint-rolling session. Left the apartment, got to the car, found said tobacco product only to discover that there was no tobacco to be had, just paper, just the recessed filter of a Parliament that seemed to say, “You can’t smoke me my pretty!” before cackling. I promptly crumpled the paper, and yes, I littered. What the crap? So then I decided I would walk to the corner store to see if it was open, perhaps purchase some Vitamin Water as well (some good intentions). Got halfway up the hill and was out of breath. Decided I shouldn’t be smoking.

I always wanted to smoke cigarettes when I was younger. Pot too. I definitely had (have) all sorts of hero-worship of my older brothers flowing through me. They listened to Rage Against the Machine, I told my friends in the fifth grade about “Killing in the Name,” my new favorite song. Little soft-spoken me, braces, glasses, the works, mouthing “Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me!” waiting in line to play four-square at recess. So it was, Mike and Dave smoked, I was determined to be a smoker too.

My first cigarette got scrunched in my pocket, bent at the center, loose brown tobacco coming out at the end. Hiding at the edge of the forest behind my old house, I struck match after match only to have them hiss out an instant after they sparked. And then finally, victory, successful lighting of deformed Camel Light stolen from Mike late one night when he was hanging out with his friends and thought I was asleep (so sneaky, even then). I was twelve. My little lungs rejected the smoke instantly, felt raw after one shallow pull. Tasted strange—how I imagined old wet newspaper would taste. I stubbed it out after my second drag, which I held briefly in puffed out cheeks before blowing out hard with a quick “ha.”

I hold my cigarette memories in blocks—general pictures of the kinds of moments that spurred me to suck down for clarity and release. For example, I have a clear image of myself smoking many of the 3 AM, I’ve got a paper due in six hours Parliaments that made my college graduation a reality. The damn, that was one helluva burrito cigarettes are filed away neatly in my memory as well (hope to keep adding to that section). Some of my favorite cigarettes were smoked on a typical Friday night when I was sixteen. Cruising in my best friend Danielle’s black Jeep Cherokee after soccer practice, taking a backward glance every now and again to look lovingly at the forties (Steele Reserve for me) we had purchased at Juanita’s, the only spot we knew would sell to us even though we looked twelve. Blasting Sleater Kinney—I imagine “One More Hour” as the soundtrack to that year. If you’re unfamiliar with the song, to me it feels like total lack of inhibition. Deep screaming, belting angst. A pleasing translation of the of the mosh pit of white noise and anxiety in my head. You can’t help but rock out when you hear the emotional state of emergency in Corin Tucker’s voice, which she manages to sustain for the entire song. When it would finish, Danielle and I would pause and look up at each other, deciding with our eyes who would press scan back for one more listen, for the rest of the night. Pull hard on our cigarettes, roll the windows down further, drive fast through suburbia so the familiar looked unfamiliar in the blur.

We went back to my house because: my parents would be asleep when we got home, we could smoke cigs on the deck (and we smoked with abandon on those nights) and if my folks did wake up and find us, they wouldn’t really get mad. My brothers had broken them in over the years. Also, I was the neurotic over achiever. Who knows, maybe they thought I needed a drink.

One of my favorite early drinking memories—Mollie and I were having a sleepover at my house. She played on the soccer team too, was much better than me. No smoking cigs in front of her. But my parents had this liquor cabinet filled with all sorts of stomach-turning tonics for us to mix together. Mollie and I were gung-ho about all of this mixing. Who knows. We certainly were no slouches when it came to book smarts. Actually, Mollie was the valedictorian of our class and I was the salutatorian (co-salutatorian with what you might call my nemesis, or you might call my former best friend. You know how these things go with girls in high school working in a constant state of hormonal combustion). So the valedictorian and the salutatorian (well, we would be in two years) decided they would do an experiment and see how many shots they could drink. Just because. Shots are an interesting thing. No middle man. For some reason I think I was far more properly warned about not mixing different kinds of alcohol in college (I still did it, but was at least aware of the treacherous path I was taking). In high school, I mixed kinds of alcohol like I was concocting a witch’s brew in my belly, the more ingredients, the more potent its powers—scotch followed by gin, maybe an Asahi, a swig from the bottle of white wine my parents had left over from dinner, another shot of scotch…”Mollie I think I’m drunk.”

I think we topped it all off with a shot of cognac before sitting down in front of the soft porn reliably provided by HBO at 3 AM on a Friday. On screen, and this I remember clearly, two people were getting a massage at a resort and then, next thing you know, oops, the two masseuses and their customers have pushed the massage tables together and all four are having sex. Mollie and I looked up at each other, eyebrows raised, “Do you think this always happens when you get a massage?” and then a second later, “Probably. Yeah I guess so,” we agreed. Perhaps the seemingly indisputable revelation of professional massage always ending in sex was too much for Mollie. Perhaps she got some cork from the white wine. Or when she tripped over my dog it sent something out of balance. Mollie got sick. Again. And again. And again. I decided she wouldn’t give me shit if I smoked a cigarette then, so I did. The next morning we would both swear off drinking, which lasted for a few weekends I believe.

Nothing makes me want a cigarette more than drinking.

Today my mother and I went to Grace Cathedral and walked the labyrinth. Strange, I've been hearing about this labyrinth for over a year, and honestly, I always pictured that crazy garden maze from The Shining (right, the least chill thought you can have--as we all remember Jack Nicholson chases Shelley Duvall through the narrow snow-heaped paths--badang, who could sit still watching that). And no, we will not be disussing the fab Jim Henson flick con David Bowie beyond acknowledging that movie's greatness....But then, my mother always told me what an amazing experience she had walking the labyrinth at Grace Cathedral. The recent death of our 16-year-old yellow lab Bandy (originally knighted as Bandy the Rodeo Clown, then Shosh, then Shosh of Life or Shosh Keppi--is it a Jewish thing to give your dog names like this?) was a formative factor in her experience of the labyrinth for sure. My mother worshipped Shosh of Life, and yes, he worshipped her, but that's another story. All you need to know is that my mother was very upset about his death, found herself in Grace Cathedral about a year ago and decided she would walk the labyrinth. Within moments after her entrance onto the winding course, she began to cry, and by the time she reached the center, she had to sit down because she was sobbing. She said Bandy had come to her while she was walking. It was an amazing experience-- she felt so peaceful after-- it was this intense catharsis (fuckin love the word catharsis). My mother explained that there were other people walking the labyrinth with her that day, and they gave her a funny look or two when they saw her sobbing in the center, but mind you, I pictured the labyrinth as this football field-sized maze--she had not told me that it was indoors, and I'm American, so I guess I'm predisposed to think that greater holiness is reflected in greater size. A person sobbing in one corner of this vast construct did not seem like a big deal, not something many would notice, probably something that happened quite often, perhaps in the same way people feel overwhelmed, swallowed by the vastness of this universe, etc. when they look out at the ocean and can't see its end.

Needless to say, I was surprised to find the labyrinth my mother had raved about to be a large rug, ok, labyrinth floor tapestry. I'm not trying to show off or anything. Because I had a very intense experience todayl strolling along on the labyrinth floor tapestry, but I'm trying to be honest about my initial reaction, which was 1. This is the fuckin labyrinth you've been talking about for the last year and 2. Dang, can't believe you were just sitting, sobbing in the middle of this rug with all of these people walking around you. That's bad-ass (I am my mother's daughter). According to the Grace Cathedral information pamphlet, "The ancient practice of walking the labyrinth in a church setting was revived here in 1991. The single-path design represents the journey of the soul, and is walked for spiritual insight and healing." Before I go any further, another point I want to bring up: We were in a Church. We're jews. Yesterday was Yom Kippur. We didn't fast. We practiced yoga, which felt much more spiritual to me than anything I felt at my old synagogue stomping ground, Washington Hebrew. Bam. Just wanted to put that out there. So journey of the soul, spiritual insight. Why today, you might ask, did I decide I needed to do this. Let me tell you a little story called My Name is Sarah, Had Major Breakup, Quit My Job , Met Someone I Didn't Want to Leave and Moved to San Francisco--aka: I'm Unemployed, Don't Have Set Housing...Bring Me to the Labyrinth.

Another thing about yesterday--it was raining, which made walking the labyrinth seem all the more appropriate. Who doesn't like to do something a little dramatic when it's raining? In some ways, I found walking the labyrinth presented challenges similar to those I encounter when practicing yoga. Not that you shouldn't have thoughts about external considerations while walking the labyrinth. But I feel like the ultimate goal is to be completely present while you're walking, not exerting thinking power beyond firing the nuerons necessary to put one foot in front of the other, just feeling the calm that comes from walking a clearly marked winding path at the front of a majestic cathedral. But, it's hard for your brain not to go other places, especially when you're walking in silence. You start thinking about what you're having for dinner (burrito?), wonder how much more winding there wil be before you reach the center, consider how much time you will spend meditating or just processing the experience in the center.

I felt vulnerable in the center. There was nothing more to do than just be there, and that's something we are conditioned to feel uncomfortable with as human beings. But then, you want to spend some time in the center--you just wound around that whole freaking sepentine path to make it here, and while you're here you will fucking meditate (peacefully). Sometimes I step outside of my head, watching my thoughts about being present and wonder if I'm sort of yoga-brain-washed. I think I should tell all of these peaceful thoughts that make so much sense to me to just shut the fuck up. Of course, when I put it like that (which is how I put it), it seems ridiculous to tell something serene to shut the fuck up. Anyhow, as I was walking , I took covert glances over at my mother to see how she was faring--I was waiting for her to start crying, which would probably lead to me crying. She seemed fine. Not happy. Not sad. Centered. I wondered what she saw when she took covert glances at me.

There were other people walking the labyrinth with us, which required some awkward side-stepping to avoid head-on collisions. I was annoyed at first. In my head: If you walk on the fucking path and don't skip any parts, we wouldn't have these near run-ins. Once I saw that thought, I realized I was pretty far away from the peaceful place I was trying to visit. I decided to drop the thought, decided I wouldn't think fuck or any of its other part of speech variations. Found myself doing a bit of blank-brain walking, that is, until I realized I was doing blank-brain walking--that's the fuck of meditation right? Once you realize you're doing it, you're not doing it.

I got to the center, closed my eyes, became conscious that my gum had lost its flavor, forgot I was chewing gum. Saw the murky dark space behind my eyes expand and contract, rippling at the edges, wondering if falling into my mind's space completely would cause me to physically fall over. Opened my eyse and my mother smiled at me. I looked up and could see that the edge of the tapestry was about ten steps away, straight-shot, but began walking the winding course back out. Spaced out for a while and then my mother motioned to me that I had gotten off the path, was about to run into someone. Wondered if the potential run-in candidate was thinking, "Stick to the fucking path and you won't run into anyone." That can't be the lesson of the labyrinth. Hmmm. We're all at different spots on the same path. Sometimes we fall off and interrupt eachother's course? I will go back. You should check it out.