I’m a person who lives in the past a lot. By that, there are parts of the past which I remember fondly and wish that had never ended.
So I just realized yesterday that 17 years ago this weekend, Labor Day Weekend, was my move to San Francisco from L.A. Rather, my company moved me to San Francisco, though it was my decision to come here. Back then, I’d worked for the company for 2 years, or not quite 2 years at the time of the move, give or take a few weeks. During that time, they had also sent me to Chicago for 3 months to help out in that office. Since my boss (an attorney) in the L.A. office had switched to the business side, the Law Dept. in Chicago offered me a position there. Don’t get me wrong, Chicago is a great place. The skyline is incredible, the restaurants (Irish, Italian, Indian, Greek, etc.) are wonderful and the people are very friendly. Plus, our offices in Chicago take up the 56th & 57th floors, which have amazing views. My 3 months there were great, but they’d offered me the job after I’d already returned to L.A. to the comfort of my boyfriend and my Chow Chow. In addition, I’d been in Chicago during the winter, which borders on brutal at times. Having grown up in Kansas, snow and winter in general are not things that I miss. Once I was back in L.A. in the sunshine eating Thai food with my boyfriend and playing with my Chow, living in Chicago was the furthest thing from my mind. Obviously, I turned down the job offer, fully expecting to be laid off in L.A. within months. Instead, the company later surprised me with the news that they were opening an office in San Francisco. Anyone who was interested in transferring to San Francisco would be moved there at the company’s expense. I’d always loved San Francisco and flew there often from L.A. to shop, eat, sightsee and party. Even though people in L.A. that had lived both places warned me that living in San Francisco is nothing like visiting, I took no heed. As for my boyfriend, once I told him about my plans, he simply said “Maybe it’s the best thing for you.” That was neither what I was expecting or wanting him to say, but that solidified my decision. My Chow ended up living very happily with a friend of mine.
My last weekend in L.A. was a commotion of packing, temporarily staying in a hotel and saying goodbye to friends. My boyfriend stayed in the hotel with me on Saturday and Sunday, as my flight to San Francisco was on Monday. I had a party in my hotel room, a junior suite, to bid adieu to friends that Saturday night. People brought food, drinks, alcohol, gifts. It was fitting goodbye. The boyfriend and I went back to my apartment on Sunday afternoon to pack up the last few things, then had a couple more people over to the hotel room that night simply to watch T.V. and hang out. When I woke up with him on Monday morning, it started to hit me. The sadness was beginning to set in. He asked what I wanted to do for my last day in L.A. “Go to the beach, of course!” was my answer. We had lunch at my favorite fast food Argentinean chicken chain (Gaucho Grill), then went down to Venice Beach for the rest of the afternoon. We’d always talked about getting tattoos together; both of us were virgins, in that respect. It was now or never. We decided on some tattoo shop on Venice Beach, picked out our tattoos, then decided who was going first. I opted to go first, my reason being that, if he went first, I’d chicken out while watching him get the tattoo! My tattoo was the Chinese symbol for Happiness, to be placed on the back of my right shoulder. I was wishing Happiness for myself in the new life. He got the Chinese symbol for Good Luck in the same spot! I have a deathly fear of needles, but braced myself. It was easier having it done on my back, as I couldn’t see the needle, but the sound of the machine starting gave me chills. In reality, it wasn’t that bad; the outlining hurt me more than the actual filling in. When the tattoos were done, we had a few drinks and headed off to the airport. I was holding up ok at first. Once I looked out at all of the airplanes, thought about how many times I’d flown in and out of LAX, and thought about how much I truly loved L.A., my friends, my Chow and my boyfriend, it was over. I began crying hysterically and couldn’t stop. He tried to console me, to no avail. Eventually, he was so unnerved by my crying that he had to leave; he was on the verge of crying as well. With that, I boarded the plane, cried all the way to SFO, cried all the way to my hotel, cried all night and thus embarked on my new life in San Francisco.
Within a week, it was obvious that moving to San Francisco had been the wrong decision. I kept telling myself that there would be an adjustment period, of course. Well, that adjustment period must still be going on. I can unabashedly say that my heart kind of harbors hate for San Francisco. It’s more expensive than L.A., the weather sucks, clubs are boring, ethnic food isn’t as good and the people are so full of themselves, as well as being stupid. That being said, there are many, many reasons for me remaining here this long, though maybe they’ll be revealed to you at a later time. I went back to L.A. to visit my boyfriend within a month. He sensed the difference in me right away and commented “You’re not happy any more!”
Now it’s 17 years later and the what ifs still plague me. If I’d stayed in L.A., would I have gotten a better job? Would I have married or lived with that boyfriend? Would I have partyed my life away? Would I have been happier?
There are things that I like about San Francisco – taking the cable car to work every day, being able to walk everywhere, eating/drinking in North Beach (our Italian section) or on Belden Lane (the “French” alley), wandering through Chinatown, but that’s about it. It’s not enough to make up for my losses. I try not to look back, but it’s difficult. San Francisco brought me my ex-husband, which made me an automatic part of the French community. I made it my mission to know as many people as possible in North Beach. As much as I enjoy the French and Italian communities here, I long for the beach and motorcycle rides along Muholland Drive, especially in the summer. I miss myL.A. friends and miss having a Chow.
Nothing will ever dim my love for L.A. In the same respect, nothing will ever make me love San Francisco.
Now my life is kind of at a standstill. My goal is to take a giant leap that will land me in another state or city (merely as a stepping stone), but ultimately another country. There is someone and something more for me than this. I just have to take the initiative to make it happen. As I wrote somewhere in this blog before, they say that if you put something down in writing, it makes it more concrete. So I’m putting this out there to the universe and all the Gods. Give me the strength and courage to make a new life, the one I’m dreaming about, no matter how long it takes.