“I always thought I would be moving,” I said to a friend. “To Boston. To NYC. To Europe. But somehow I ended up back in the Bay Area. Not by choice, but because the best opportunities were here.”
He seemed surprised, “But you love San Francisco!”
I cocked my head. Somewhat. Somewhat not. It’s always the feeling that I am missing out, having only lived once outside California for less than 2 years in a place called Pittsburgh, PA.
And I told them the two reasons I would leave.
1. a disaster of epic proportions that made living in the Bay Area unbearable
such as: hurricane, earthquake (likely), the American government (maybe?)…
I am not a homebody. A friend once observed that I really had no home. In some way, I still live almost like a transient barely having much furniture that will last and only having several valuables—a rug, my Japanese shoiji screens and ottoman—of value (to me).
Emotional trauma that is. In Sleepless in Seattle, he had to leave Chicago because he couldn’t bear to be in the same city as Wrigley Field and other memories. I couldn’t live in the Bay Area to the fullest without encountering memories that could cause happy memories, but that of loss. The risk I took is to give it all way, knowing that I may not get any back.
“Let’s talk about the present, because that’s what matters now,” I said to my friend, changing the subject.