By Ian S. Port
By Cory Sklar
By Godofredo Vasquez
By Gil Riego Jr.
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Christopher Victorio
By Ian S. Port
John Petrik believes he received divine intervention in 1996. "Someone up there said, "You should not be doing this [with your life],' and took me aside to find my path." Such a statement sounds like a chess player's rationalization of destiny, especially given that Petrik's "aside" was a 10-month stay in a Dutch jail on a narcotics charge.
Anyone else might be bitter about having to share cell space with some of Europe's biggest drug offenders, but not Petrik. In fact, he's surprisingly serene -- almost thankful even -- when he recounts the experience during an interview in his outwardly nondescript Mission District residence.
In 1996, Petrik was a 26-year-old Cleveland native living a gilded life in Florida. Holding a cushy job at PricewaterhouseCoopers as a tech consultant, he spent his weekends playing guitar on his boat in Miami Beach Marina and his nights hanging with his coke-supplying Cuban friends in the city's hedonistic clubs.
When those friends offered to pay him to protect a mutual acquaintance while she delivered Ecstasy to German traffickers in Rotterdam, he didn't think twice. Petrik had never been to Holland, he had a one-week break from an assignment in Toronto, and, he says, "The whole time I felt separated from [risk] since they weren't my drugs."
As luck -- or, in Petrik's mind, destiny -- would have it, his friend purchased 17,000 pills, the "magic number" that the local authorities considered prosecutable. When the two were approached by a group of men in a train station outside Zwolle, Petrik's friend was noticeably upset, but Petrik, who couldn't decipher their Dutch, just assumed the men were cab drivers. The cops then turned to him and demanded in English to see his passport. Ten minutes later, he was in jail.
On the surface, Petrik's tale appears to be tragic -- a story that wouldn't be rehashed for the grandkids, let alone reporters. But over the course of Petrik's imprisonment, he discovered a newfound appreciation of freedom and began to re-evaluate his existence. Today, nearly four years later, he lives a decidedly different life, creating music for his recording project Jhana (Petrik's pseudonym, a Buddhist meditation term) and his live electronica outfit Live (rhymes with "give"), while throwing elaborate underground parties at his spacious hub, the Palace. Prison, it seems, set Petrik free.
"In jail, I began to explore my imaginative and creative sides," says Petrik, a handsome man with a bleached buzz-cut and a chiseled face. "Before jail, I had pushed them aside and wasn't taking any risks in incorporating creativity into the things I'd do daily."
Without access to his first love -- the guitar -- he learned to channel his energy into new forms, meditating and working his thoughts into poems, lyrics, and short stories. To pass the time, he also kept regular records of his mental state, did countless push-ups, and flossed his teeth up to eight times a day -- "little things to make myself feel like I was getting along OK."
When not teaching gin to his hard-core inmates -- a Chilean man arrested with 2 million pills of Ecstasy, several Turkish and Lebanese heroin dealers, a Norwegian gangster caught distributing 800 kilos of coke -- he imagined how he'd like his life to be and how he could get "there," a place he describes as being so special that it must be shared with others.
"I promised myself that when I got out, I'd sell my boat, save money, move to San Francisco, and get the Palace," he says matter-of-factly. "I admit I wanted to do it for selfish reasons, to surround myself with people who could help take me "there.' But I didn't want it to be totally selfish. I knew the Palace could be a place where I could share my music with others and help them to get "there' too."
Upon his release in February 1998, he immediately began carrying out the goals he had established during lockup. After leaving Miami, Petrik drove to San Francisco, a city he'd imagined to be both beautiful and progressive. "San Francisco is like New York in that people go there to follow their dreams," Petrik says. "But in New York, people have on blinders. I always felt that San Francisco would be more open, with greater integration. Since I've been here, I've sensed it's a place filled with a lot of good."
Within a few days of Petrik's arrival, fate struck again. At the height of the rental crunch, Petrik found a vacancy online that had a misprinted price tag, and he quickly snatched up the 1,200-square-foot raw space.
"I wanted to find a completely open space, one that wouldn't make it easy for the occupants to find privacy," he says, raising a glass of chardonnay to the Eden he's shared with all sorts of roommates, including DJs, programmers, and a synchronized swimmer. "I wanted everyone to have to intermingle and work together."
At the Palace's corners are four small bedrooms. The bulk of the space is comprised of four airy living rooms, each sectioned off by a distinct décor: Day-Glo Goa, St. Thomas tropical bungalow, urban decay, and living jungle. There's a greenhouse's worth of flora scattered about, including a vine plant that has grown half the length of the building in three years, climbing nearly 20 feet to reach the Palace's central skylight.
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