A Two-Day Redemption in San Jose
By Mei Chen
It’s 8:00 a.m., and I’m sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Valencia on Santana Row, sipping a cappuccino that tastes suspiciously like redemption.
The sunshine streams through the oversized windows, and I can’t help but squint into it, like a character in a movie who’s finally emerged from a decade-long bender. This city, San Jose—forever my purgatory of low-paying assistant work and late-night whiskey sours at Applebee’s on Saratoga Avenue—now appears in a new light. Quite literally. The gleaming tech campuses glint like cash registers in the distance, and suddenly I’m wondering if this place has more to offer than just bittersweet memories and the scent of old startup dreams. I’m here for two days, and for once, it’s on my terms.
San Jose is often the overlooked middle child of the Bay Area. While San Francisco seduces with its iconic skyline and Silicon Valley hogs the tech-glory spotlight, San Jose quietly sways to its own rhythm—a blend of suburban sprawl, cultural diversity, and an almost quaint insistence on being an actual city where actual people live. It’s a place where I spent too much time in my early twenties, floundering in my first job as an assistant to a guy I’ll call Larry who thought he could disrupt the world with an app that reminded you to call your mom. I’m back now, ready to reclaim this city from the clutches of my past.
Day One: Hotel Valencia and Downtown San Jose
I start my day at Hotel Valencia on Santana Row, a shopping and dining district that feels like a surreal mix between European charm and American consumerism. The lobby is all dark wood and wrought iron, and the staff greets me with a smile that seems genuine enough. I can’t help but think about Larry. He used to frequent Santana Row when he felt flush from another failed pitch meeting—usually after I had to remind him to wear a clean shirt.
I take a leisurely stroll through the Row, dodging early-morning joggers and overenthusiastic dog-walkers. The shops are a mix of high-end boutiques and chain stores, the type of places that seem to know exactly what you should wear but never why you need to wear it. I’m tempted to stop in a café that promises “authentic” Mediterranean pastries, but then I remember my days of avocado-toast lunches and keep moving.
Instead, I decide to head downtown to San Pedro Square Market. It’s a charming cluster of food stalls, bars, and live music that feels refreshingly unpretentious. I buy coffee beans that smell like cocoa and roasted cashews. I order a banh mi sandwich from a Vietnamese stall, and it’s so good it almost makes me forget how many times Larry promised me equity in a company that never existed. I sit on a rickety chair, watching people mingle, and for a moment, I feel something akin to contentment.
Afternoon at Innovation, an Evening at Adega
After lunch, I wander to the Tech Interactive, a place I used to avoid like a dentist’s appointment. But now, with the glow of nostalgia—or maybe just indigestion from the sandwich—I decide to give it a chance. The exhibits are a mix of the fascinating and the mildly terrifying. I spend a good 15 minutes trying to wrap my head around artificial intelligence, only to be distracted by a group of kids giggling at a robot that dances like it’s had one too many cocktails.
There’s an entire section dedicated to the future of space travel, and as I stand there, contemplating a future where humans are shuttled to Mars like it’s just another day trip, I realize I’ve spent too much time thinking about the past. I’m struck by the thought that perhaps I’ve been as stuck in my orbit as poor Larry and his failed startup.
For dinner, I head to Adega, San Jose’s only Michelin-starred restaurant, located in the Little Portugal neighborhood. The exterior is understated—a modest, white-walled building that gives nothing away. Inside, it’s a different story. The dining room is sleek and modern, all polished wood and ambient lighting, the kind of place where the breadbasket is its own event.
I opt for the tasting menu, a culinary journey through Portuguese cuisine that feels equal parts luxurious and accessible. Each dish arrives like a carefully wrapped present—a medley of flavors and textures that make me wonder why I ever settled for soggy mozzarella sticks at Applebee’s. The grilled octopus is tender, served with a smoky paprika sauce that makes me close my eyes in gratitude. The codfish, flaky and delicate, reminds me that simplicity can be its own kind of sophistication. By the time the dessert arrives—a pastel de nata that nearly brings me to tears—I’m convinced that San Jose has secrets I never bothered to uncover. Adega, it turns out, is one of them.
Day Two: Japantown and the Night Out
On my second day, I make my way to Japantown. It’s one of the last remaining authentic Japantowns in the United States, and it’s charming in its own way—quiet, unassuming, like the city itself. I visit a small gallery showcasing local artists and wander into a bookstore that sells manga and vintage Japanese vinyl records. I buy a record I’ll probably never listen to, just because I like the idea of owning it.
The night is reserved for a little adventure. I decide to check out Paper Plane, a craft cocktail bar that’s been getting rave reviews. It’s dark and intimate, the kind of place where you might make a regrettable decision but also have a story to tell about it later. I order a drink with a name so complicated it feels like a dare. It arrives in a delicate glass, all aromatic smoke and bitter complexity, and as I sip it, I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, San Jose and I have both grown up a little.
By the time I check out of the Hotel Valencia on the third morning, I’ve found something unexpected: a newfound affection for a city I once thought of as a personal hell. San Jose may not be the shining star of the Bay Area, but it’s real, and it’s trying, and there’s something to be said for that. As I drive away, I realize that I don’t miss Larry, or the endless startup pitches, or even the Applebee’s on Saratoga Avenue. But I think I might just miss this city—just a little bit.
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