I Moved To San Francisco

The past month has been blog-free in no small part because I was preparing to move to San Francisco from DC, my home for the better part of my 21 years. On Saturday evening I got on a plane with two suitcases and my courier bag. Three smallish boxes should arrive soon containing the rest of my worldly possessions: books, sundry tools and knickknacks, a set of speakers, and a sun lamp. I sold my car, left my furniture to the individual taking my old apartment, and that was that.

I moved for a change of pace, a change of scenery, a change in personality. I moved because living in the same place for two decades is not a growth experience on the whole. I moved because I am starting a company with Phil, and he moved to San Francisco from DC, and he likes it, and he and his girlfriend had an affordable room to offer me.

My exhaustion after getting off the plane was put aside for our other roommate to take us all out to a couple of gay bars. My roommates and I share one floor of an odd, multilevel house on an absurdly steep hill above Castro, the most decidedly gay neighborhood in the country. I’m somewhat used to the gay social dynamic from years spent around DC’s Dupont Circle neighborhood but the Castro outdoes it in all respects. At the top of the hill and a couple block’s walk is Cole Valley and then the Haight, the hippie mecca of the 1960s long since given way to a lengthy strip of boutiques. Being at the cross-section of these two neighborhoods is interesting and pleasant, but assuming I stay in San Francisco for several years, it is not likely where I continue to live.

My immediate future: exploring neighborhoods, acquiring some semblance of furniture, DefCon CTF development, and working like hell with Phil to get our endeavor off the ground. Only the latter truly keeps me from homesick freakouts while I get my bearings in this new city. That, and watching the otherworldly light of the California sunset fade from the sky, a memory from my mother’s childhood now mine.