Busy, frenzied, that is what that past month has been. So here-and-there, in fact, that though I had planned on writing some sort of nostalgic elegy to San Francisco before I left, I find myself now an Angeleno, having missed the window of opportunity to put such words to presence while wrapped in fog.
Nonetheless, my thoughts and sensations about The City remain palpable. I resided in the same apartment on Divisadero for just under seven years. I had a picture of Sutro Tower welcome me each morning through my living room window, occasionally toweled with wet atmosphere, often glaringly exposed stark naked. It was a good picture to live under.
Divisadero changed much and quick as my tenure persisted. Gentrification is a citywide trend, but the Alamo Square area perhaps embraced it at a cocaine pace. There were upsides and downsides to the change, but for me they were too much; the noise level of my corner screamed a particular uninhabitability of which my nerves were too aware.
On the contrary, Josey Baker Bread came to the stretch and will likely remain, in my mind, as the finest baked good I have ever placed past my lips.
San Francisco was a rather remarkable experience, of a magnitude which words can do no real explication. Reflecting on my time there only confirms this — it is the emotional growth I experienced as a result of being there that has created an indelible steep hill beside my presence that will last as a touchstone and echopoint to test all future travels against.
Alas, I am now an Angeleno. Happily. And though the magnitude of LA I wear at this point hangs thin, the adhesion I can taste of the surfaces I see is as powerful as the salinity of the sky that accented my days and quieted my nights in sweet, queer San Francisco.