A Love Letter To San Francisco
A love letter to San Francisco | Bernal Heights | Originally written July 2014
I like knowing I live in a city where notes of jazz float out of French cafe’s in lower Haight and on sunny days there are parks and on rainy days trains run slow, moving steadily over metal rails. This is a city full of people who leave cracked open pages in books on coffee tables and no one leaves a half filled cup of coffee to waste. Recently, there was a man on the train speaking Chinese and I listened to him intently, like he had something to say that I would understand. The other day I found myself sitting next to a woman texting in French, and across from me sat a teenager reading in Japanese and then there was me, in the middle of it with all my history and love rooted in Thailand and France and Norway.
Maybe that’s why I love living here, why living here feels like home; because I can sit on the N train and hear the landscape of a dozen countries, and that all it takes is one person laughing in a foreign language for me to feel as if all the oceans in the world have disappeared and all the cities of every continent have become rounded corners, and neighbors, and we can all stand at the edge of state lines and shout to Spain or sing to Greenland.