I found myself wandering-with-purpose in the Financial District tonight. It was a perfect 65 degrees and the buildings quietly churned with swing-shift tidying. On a street I have walked hundreds of times, I found myself staring at the new location of an old employer. There was no rush of feeling, bad or good, just a slow smile. Well, there you are again. And I kept going.
I wish I understood San Francisco. For a researcher like me, the city is frustrating. Parts of it I want to make sense, and they don’t, and they won’t. Parts of it are like the transit system I’m always going on about, and you wonder why I just don’t shut up already. When I hear myself even start to talk about it, I cringe. But this is my first and closest interface with San Francisco, and so I care. I keep caring. I don’t know what to do about all that misguided love, but it’s there.
Ninety-minute travel-time aside, dinner at La Mediterranee was tasty as always, and “L’illusionniste” was a delight.
The vistas of Edinburgh gave me chills.
I hope my friend and I make a habit out of this dinner and a movie thing. I hope I don’t forget how much I love going to the movies.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever belong to a place, or if I will continue to have these tenuous, furtive connections, inside but not a part of. I don’t know if it matters anymore.