Two-year itch

It has been six years since I’ve lived anywhere longer than two years. And for the first 28 years of my life I lived in Orange County, savoring a comfortable lifestyle in the cocoon of the Orange County bubble. Then, two weeks after graduating college, I ventured out on my own in search of a brave new world—4 miles from my parents in a two-bedroom apartment in a gated complex, just close enough to still bring laundry home when I ran out of quarters. After a few compelling reasons, five months later I moved a whole 17 miles farther north with the same roommate in a place that just so happened to be a 20-minute bike ride to the beach. And because that just wasn’t close enough to the sand, two years later I moved 30 miles south to a sleepy beach town into my own one-bedroom bungalow a mere 4 blocks from the crashing waves. Now, on the two-year anniversary of my move to San Francisco, I’m reflecting on the path that brought me here. I was enticed to The City by the Bay for a job in book publishing, but really what now holds me here is so much more. But I’d be lying if I said the itch to move and chase change wasn’t pulling at me, although I’m fighting the urge to find the so-called next best thing and just…be. Be in the city that feels so overwhelmingly crowded sometimes that I almost find it hard to breathe. Be in the city where neighborhoods become defined not just by street signs, but by the smells permeating from well-known eateries, fresh-brewed coffee from the latest barista, and perhaps the unidentifiable pile of mush in the middle of the sidewalk. Be in the city that actually does sleep, and in fact embraces weekend snoozing because you come to realize that brunch is a way of life, not just a meal. Be in the city that houses the richest and the poorest, creating a vast melting pot of eclectic cultures, diverse personalities, and conflicting perspectives. I honestly never really dreamed I would feel settled in a city this size, and at best I hoped to be a contributing transient passing through. But at the two-year threshold, San Francisco feels like home—it is home, at least for now—and I owe that to every person I’ve been blessed to meet in the last 24 months. And the happiest realization for me is knowing that I’m going to stay for a while, if only because I just don’t have it in me to pack boxes and drive a Uhaul up and down the infamous hills. So, happy anniversary, San Francisco, you’re one of the best relationships I’ve ever embarked on and I can’t wait to see what else is ahead.

Corona Heights hike in San Francisco