Where the Heart Roams…

So last weekend I went up the coast to San Francisco. To see my girls Lucy and Chloe—to hang out with Kirby and into the drive. I kind of wish I hadn’t.

It has nothing to with my girls—I love them all dearly—and the trip was wild and funny. It is just the city itself—the beautiful wonderful city. I love it dearly, a magical place that seems like it has come out of a fairy tale that I dreamt about as a child.

As I wandered the streets, up and down Filmore, through the Castro and around the Painted Ladies I realized that I love everything about the city. The sense of magic and possibility, the feeling of anything could happen, anywhere and with anyone. It’s the smallness of the neighborhoods, the crest of each hill and even the familiarity of riding the bus across the town.

But it scares me, the feeling of comfort and ease to which I respond to the town. It’s almost too perfect, too pretty. It feels like a place that would steal my heart but also break it. It’s the prettiest boy who’s not bought me a drink, the best job I ever lost, the pants that fit like a dream—until I eat a meal. It’s too close to heaven to not to be hell.

And yet the taste of it lingers on my tongue—like a dry martini or a honey laced cracker. I don’t know what to do with the feelings yet.