Eight years ago this week, I was working furiously on my escape from San Francisco. It’s hard to believe it’s been so long since we filled up the pod, packed up the Toyota, and left the city like a couple of refugees. So much has happened since then. I’ve called one apartment and three different houses “home” on a variety of levels. I went back to school, got my Master’s, and started an entire new career. I’ve said goodbye to the three most important people in my life, although two of them are still around, if in a somewhat unrecognizable format. The Toyota went several years ago, replaced by a Buick that will be going away soon, too. I’ve reconnected with the East Coast, bonded with Pittsburgh, contemplated cohabiting with Canada, and have pretty much never looked back at San Francisco even for a second. Some rotten things have happened to me here (loss, depression, cancer…) but all in all, I’ve done pretty well on this end of the country and I know that I’m at the right longitude if maybe not yet at the optimal latitude.
Most of the time, geography is not really the cure-all we want it to be, but at two times in my life–when I moved to San Francisco and when I left–the change really was just what I needed. I don’t regret either move.