Today is my last Tuesday in San Francisco, ergo my last time at my regular writing group.
Oh yeah. I’m going away. I’m going to not see people that I’ve been seeing weekly for years. Everything is about to change. There’s that pall of finality floating around me like a private little thunderhead.
I remind myself that most of everything is for the better. I’ll be living with my sweetheart. I’ll have access to a swimming pool and free coffee and an air-conditioned clubhouse. My own place will have central air and heating, which has been on my wishlist for a decade now. (More importantly, insulation. My drafty Victorian couldn’t bleeds heat, so I’ve relied in bundling up like an Arctic researcher every winter.) I’ll eat food at a dining table. I’ll have a dining table –and a clubhouse– in which to invite friends and play card games.
And while I can foresee new challenges, I can also foresee avoiding older, more invisible challenges. My San Francisco neighborhood is now the gentrification capital of the world. When people write op-eds about gentrification, they discuss my neighborhood. I miss the hippy / arty place it once was already. I won’t miss the new order of things.
But people. Friends. Familiar faces. Places where everyone knows my name. Dang it, I’m going to miss those.