The Queen of Sutter Street

"At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar, she said she would love to go." ~ excerpt from "Araby," Dubliners, James Joyce

***

Preface

As of 10:30am yesterday (and this is retroactive to at least the last twelve years of my life),

I have had it.

I am done with whiny, spoiled, helpless women who are entitled. Who substitute vapid feel-good platitudes for a personality.

Done. Had it.

Not interested in your demons, your dark side, your dragons.

Oh, you're an artiste? Whatever.

Oh, you're the center of the universe? Not my universe, lady.

Get over yourself.

***

That was my morning.

This was my afternoon.

Meet Ghalyia.

She is the Queen of Sheba.

***

Yesterday, after meeting a new friend for lunch (who bears absolutely no resemblance to anyone mentioned in the preface), I ended up wandering in an entirely different direction than I had planned.

I meant to go to the Castro, but instead I ended up in the Tenderloin (again).

Walking up Sutter Street, it started to drizzle and I tucked my camera inside my coat. I'm learning. I'm not getting my camera wet anymore.

Across the street from a pawnshop was a corner market where most of the writing on the awning had faded or was rubbed out. But you could see where it said Middle Eastern Foods. That was enough to get me across the street. The open door with the smell of spices got me inside.

Near the doorway were three older women wearing long tunics and headscarves. The eldest woman had a blue painted line running vertically from her lower lip down her chin. (I am not sure what that marking means, if anyone else does, please enlighten me.)

A television was playing in Arabic.

Feeling somewhat shy, I ducked around the back of the store to see if I could find some of my favorite coffee. I love my Cafe Najjar with cardamom, and it's hard to find. And I was enjoying wandering the narrow aisles, looking at all of the juices (blueberry, mango, pomegranate, tamarind) and packets of spice blends (kebab, za' atar, baharat).

I came up to the counter with my little bag of coffee, and noticed near the register boxes of Turkish delight, and little candied fruits wrapped in plastic.

The woman behind the counter beams as I finger the candies. "Oh my God," she says, with a little lust in her voice. "I love those so much. I eat too many of them."


That's all I need for a testimonial, so I choose one of each. She takes an apricot. "Oh my God, this one is my favorite." She unwraps it and takes a bite of it like it's her last meal.

"You like cardamom?" she asks, looking at the coffee.

I love cardamom, I tell her.

You like tea? she asks.

Just tell me what to buy and I'll get it, I tell her.

Come with me, she says, and I follow her to the back of the store. She disappears into the back room and then emerges with a sizeable tub of black tea leaves.

She smiles as she takes the plastic lid off of the tub.

Smell this, she says knowingly. She makes it herself, she tells me proudly, mixing four different kinds of tea with cardamom.

OH my god, I think. It smells like heaven.

Ghalyia owns this lovely market on the cusp of a neighborhood that has still evaded gentrification, even though technically the address is Nob Hill.

She has owned the store for 10 years. The Queen of Sheba on Sutter Street.

Ghalyia offers me a cup of her tea. It tastes even better than it smells. She tells me how to prepare it. "Just a pinch in hot water."

She tells me she is from Yemen. She says she raised two children (one is with God now, she says) as a single mother and never got to go to school. But she has a beautiful granddaughter, Nadia. "Look, there is her picture," she points to a photograph of an infant next to a photo of Barack Obama. "That's my granddaughter, right next to the President."

There are Obama posters and t-shirts about, and I'm not quite sure if they're for decoration or for sale. She shows me an article that someone wrote in the paper about her. An American reporter who speaks perfect Arabic came in to visit regularly and wrote a whole article about her. It's laminated for sharing.

"Where did you come from?" she asks me. "Did you hear of me?"

I tell her I was just wandering by and she says, "That happens every day. I love when people find me."

I tell her I'll be back to talk some more, and to give her a copy of the photos she's so goodnaturedly let me take. She gives me the realest hug I've had in a long time. It's such a lovely hug that I don't want to let go. But I do.

As I'm leaving, it's starting to pour. An old homeless woman, barefoot, comes in, clutching a dollar in her arthritic looking hand. Ghalyia waves after me, smiling. "See you soon! Next time, I'll make coffee."

That is an antidote to the preface.

There are false queens and then there are real ones. I think I've met a real Queen today.

***

ps.: I was thrilled to see that I'm not the only one to have discovered Ghalyia and her lovely welcoming manner. You can read reviews here on yelp, as well as get her address so you can stop by and buy some tea. And maybe even get a hug.

Queen of Sheba
1100 Sutter St
(between Larkin St & Polk St)
San Francisco, CA 94109
(415) 567-4322

A Hugging Story

Johanna's recent post, Hugging Is Now Illegal, and Alex's Free Hugs inspired some thoughts of my own. I think most of us who read Johanna's post had a sinking feeling of what's going on here?!!

The story described in Johanna's post unfortunately is not the first incident in Illinois. Apparently other states have tried to avoid "harassment" by banning holding hands and hugging in schools ("inappropriate displays of affection"), as further detailed in this article published in Time magazine. One would think that school districts had more important things to worry about.

On the flip side, a study published by the BBC outlined the physiological health benefits of hugging. Of course, for those who are used to and enjoy a regular embrace, and I'm definitely including a tango embrace in this as well, this information shouldn't be much of a surprise. Other studies and books written on the effect of Hug Therapy and how important it is for infants to receive hugs is common knowledge.

So how can governments, both local and national, decide when a hug is not beneficial? Or that the danger of harassment is more serious than the friendship and comraderie displayed in a junior high school setting?

Our priorities seem so sadly misplaced.

Which brings me to the subject in the photo above, and a vibrant memory and experience of hugging.

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine invited me to go with her to an ashram in San Ramon to see her guru, Amma. I had no idea who this guru was, or really what I was going to see, but my friend really wanted me to go, so I did. My only instructions were to wear a skirt, and preferably dress in light colors, which I did.

We drove for at least an hour to get to our destination and the traffic to the place surprised me. When we drove onto the property, the beautiful wooden buildings, gardens and the crowds of people surprised me even more. We walked past several immaculate gardens, some full of roses and others full of vegetables, and all were obviously tended with a lot of care and attention.

We were directed to a large barn-like building and we sat amongst a lively but orderly crowd of devotees. Hundreds of people were there--and everyone was so happy. There was a definite buzz in the air. But for what? I seemed to be the only one who didn't really know what to expect.

We were really packed in to the place. Everyone sat cross-legged (or as best they could) on the floor. Overhead fans whirled in the summer heat. After a while some Indian musicians came onto the stage and played some ragas, and everyone in the crowd began to chant in unison. The words were repeated over and over, so even I was able to join in the singing too.

And then, finally, maybe an hour or two later, Amma appeared. The electricity in the air of the big hall was all around us. A middle-aged, motherly figured Indian woman, all dressed in white and surrounded by attendants, made her way down the main aisle to the dais in the front. And the orderly procession for the hundreds of people in the room to receive their hug from the Hugging Saint began.

We all waited patiently for our hug. We waited a long time. Even while I waited, I was wondering why so many people would endure the long hours of sitting and waiting for a few seconds of an embrace? I didn't understand until it was my turn.

Amma is a woman. A human being, whom some believe is a saint. I have no opinion on the matter and am not a devotee or disciple. What I can say is that this soft, warm person wears an easy smile and smells like the most delicate flower, despite sitting for hours in the heat without moving, just hugging every single person that comes before her.

She holds you in a way that can only be described as how your mother held you when you were born and you've forgotten how that feels until now. She rocks you, she sings softly into your ear, and then she releases you. Her assistant gives you a blessed Hershey's kiss as you leave Amma's embrace. You leave the dais woozy and blissful and a little discombobulated. And then you wish you could get back in line again and you'd wait for another hour just for that hug. That night all I dreamed about was Amma, her voice in my ear and I could feel her hugging me all night as I slept. I awoke the next day full of wonder.

The following year, you bet I was back again.

A tango embrace is different but brings a similar feeling of fulfillment. I'm happy for those of us who can receive a hug daily, whether from a loved one, a dance parter, or a saint.

But I worry about the children who can't, or aren't allowed to, embrace. What kind of world are we creating for them?

***

For those of you who are interested, here is an article about Amma in the Christian Science Monitor.