Now that I live on the west coast, I’ve been hearing about San Francisco a lot more than usual. Any time someone mentions a street or intersection, I’m like “Oh yeah,” I’ve walked that street before. Any time someone mentions the fog, I know all about it. Any time someone mentions they want to live there, I roll my eyes and spout about how crazy it is there. I get very openly bitter about SF instantly.
Sometimes I would hear myself say these things and wonder why I was being so negative, and then stop wondering all of a sudden. It wasn’t until recently when someone from the SF office of the company I’m working with in Seattle visited that I actually allowed myself to confront my hate for SF. He spoke fondly of it, smiling. I realized that I don’t actually hate San Francisco. I still love it even though it’s batsh*t crazy with its live street sex festivals and relaxed views on everything and angry hobos and… SF is just a great town.
I realized also that the hate I had for SF wasn’t really about SF. It comes from having missed someone from SF that I grew sick of missing. I got tired of thinking of the city and wondering “What if maybe” this or that and realizing every time that “this or that,” wouldn’t change who me and that someone are. Often you can love someone so much and want the best for them and want to be there when they win, but you’re not meant to be. It’s what makes Life an *sshole sometimes—these harsh realities.
While I was hesitant about returning, I visited SF in April and I instantly knew my way around: BART—no problem, MUNI—no problem; North Beach, the Mission, SOMA, Embarcadero, the Wharf, Union Square—no problem. The sun was mellow but bit me a little in the end. I walked the streets like it was my backyard. I left my heart there once. During that trip, I left it again knowing that I wouldn’t be returning to get it back.
I felt comfortable leaving my heart there because I truly do love that crazy *ss city.