The lady I work with told me it was very odd for her when she called the phone company to disconnect her parents’ land line. I just did the same thing and it was in fact pretty strange. My parents had had the same phone number for forty-nine years. It was the number I grew up with (although it was on its third area code) and I’m reasonably certain I’ll have it committed to memory till the day I die.

I remember being really amazed about eleven years ago when I discovered that Mark’s parents’ phone number was exactly one digit higher than my own parents’ number. It’s a good number; for a brief moment, I considered reassigning it to my cell phone. But it’s time to move on.

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.