Not the best photos in the world, but not everything that comes out of my camera is the shiznit.
Some days, when I wake up, for just the smallest of moments, I think that I am waking up in San Francisco. But then I notice the lack of a smell of eucalyptus in the air and the absence of the taste of fog on my tongue, and I know that I am somewhere else, somewhere not home, and my heart tightens, then releases.
It’s incorrect to say that those of us who have left the City are expatriates, but it certainly seems that way to us. We are always citizens of San Francisco, no matter where we go, and there is no removing its imprint from our souls.
We know that people who live in San Francisco don’t eat Rice-a-Roni.
We read the pink section first, and if you’re from the Bay then you’ll know what I mean by that.
We see our films at the Roxie or the Kabuki or the Red Vic, and we read our old Richard Brautigan collections at City Lights. Barnes & Noble can kiss our hippie asses.
We miss Doggie Diner, and we are sad whenever we park at the zoo and see the last head there, across the street, standing watch on Sloat Boulevard.
If you call it “Frisco” or “San Fran,” we will wince and want to beat you. We are not as peace-loving as the rest of the country would have you believe.
Do not push people who live on sourdough and Gordo’s burritos.
I’m homesick these days. I am drained and thin and in need of the rolling folds of hills and the damp satin whisper of the fog and the sharp chill of the salt air from the Pacific sliding over the skin like melting ice over glass.
I want to go home.
Who wants to come with me?