It was 1:30pm, walking down Market Street with Lena, running through a list of worthwhile-for-an-old-friend San Francisco food joints, that the timer faded into view. –I leave in one week and one half hour.
Of course, I’d been logging the countdown for more than a month now, understanding that my decade-long SF vacation was coming to a near close, making little preparations here and there, ensuring that I didn’t miss any important drinking sessions or anything important. But it wasn’t exactly when the one-week timer started counting down that the mortality of this American dream became real.
No, it was much earlier in the day, when a new friend asked me to coffee. It was one of those ‘who are you, what do you believe, are humans worth saving, what do you feel about your life, what on earth is worthwhile,’ god-death-infinity sorts of conversations, the kind that if held at night leads to rabid-foaming monkey love, if early in the morning, a full vivid day of whimsical and vital and passionate ‘we’re-all-in-this-together’ day dreams.
From there, everything started to click–the fact that as time keeps ticking on, so dawns the end of my San Francisco memories, and with that comes instant nostalgia saturating every moment I have left. Sappy maybe, but at this point who cares.
Skipper once remarked that the attitude worth having at all times is the one of the backpacker; living and breathing the ideal in which every moment is one finite part of your infinite journey. Every moment fresh and new, every person, place, and thought worth savoring. As my SF stay winds down, I feel as if this is just one part of a larger trek out of the way, unique only in the fact that I just happen to know a shit-ton of people here, just happen to know a shit-ton of places.
Other than that, it’s just a city on a planet, a planet with a shit-ton of ’em to see.
I just did my last load of laundry in America. Instant-goddamm-nostalgia.