I'm 8 years old, and I'm car-sick. We finally find a parking space on a hill so steep my tiny little brain conjures up a vision of the car unable to stop itself from rolling down at a tremendous speed and crashing in a trolley carrying only nuns and children. We check into the Richileu, a hotel that was "Newly Renovated" 12 years before, and I am sleeping on the floor. It is the first moment I decide that I will avoid sleeping in the same room as my parents at all costs for the rest of my life. This is the weekend that my sister graduates from law school, and it is the same weekend that I begin the love affair that will last for more than a decade.
That San Francisco Sound
I've written more than once about my complicated love for Los Angeles, but out of respect for my geographical wife, I've never written about my mistress: San Francisco. She is the bitter cold to the tempestuous heat that is LA, the seismographic terrain to the endless flat rock of my home. It took me 22 years to accept that I love this place that bickers with me incessantly, but it took me only a few hours to know that one day I'd seek refuge in the arms of another, forsaking angels for Giants. Before Halloween I will pack up my sparse belongings once again and shove them into the crevices of my beaten, wheezing Ford Taurus to move to that hilly metropolis which may or may not accept me as a citizen this time, instead of just a passing tourist.
Graduating from college didn't make me feel liberated or nostalgic; it simply put a magnifying glass to the small but growing tear in the seam of my life. Joblessness gave way to a part-time flirtation in sales and small victories countered repeated failures, but my single life was invaded by an ever-present specter reflecting the person I could be somewhere else. Los Angeles gave me roots, and nourished me into an adult; my roots firmly planted, it's time to fall off the bush and roll onto different pastures. I've reached my greatest heights this summer, and as the autumn leaves begin to fall, a new season is approaching, during which I plan to take advantage of new soil. The point is, I'm getting out of here not because I want to, but because I need to.
I need to be the person I've been preparing to be since I was 8 years old. I need to know that what I want and who I've become is a real, fleshy person, complete with more flaws than I can count. I need to fail, I need to succeed, and I need to grow.
Saying goodbye to the place that made me this frazzled, confused mess will be the greatest heartbreak I will ever know; I can only hope that I'll fall in love again with new streets which I'll discover on my own.
I don't know if I'm brave or stupid, but at this point I can't really tell the difference. Eventually I'll probably figure it out, but until then I'm ready to get the shit kicked out of me by Life. And, as always, you're invited to share in my misadventures.
Next Week: The Top 5 Things To Do In The Valley!
**Spoiler alert, the same thing is listed 5 times.**
