People Of San Francisco, I Have Arrived.

by nedhepburn on June 3, 2010

Bloodied, dirtied, and covered in what appears to be aloe vera, I have arrived in San Francisco.

For the third and perhaps final time in 9 months I packed up everything I own into my car and left Los Angeles, swearing that I’d never return. I headed North, to the Bay Area, home of promiscuity, revelry, long haired freaky people, and good burritos. It is a city of 4 million people, and seven haircuts. Everyone has a dog or an iPhone, although sometimes –  if rarely –  you’ll see a strange hybrid of the two.

I saw a wheatpasted mural. It was “just alright”. No lifechanging. I did not see my own soul in the street art. Heck, in Los Angeles we practically piss on our Duchamps! (Note: I took Art History 101 at a Learning Annex: thus I am highly qualified to tell you, as Dave Eggers says, what is the what). But this isn’t about me. This isn’t about the fleeting memories of my abandoned hometown of Los Angeles. This is about ‘finding yourself in San Francisco’ – and not in that ‘dancing by the light of the moon with a Quebecois lumberjack in the heart of the Castro’ way. It’s about being a confused young man coming to the city by the bay for a few days and sing-yelling the half remembered Journey lyrics to the agressive panhandlers of the Lower Divisadero. It’s about abandoning pretension in a city near famous for it. It’s about $12 for a cab ride from one end of the city to the other. And for that, I am thankful.

As I sit here in the Bean Bag Cafe watching the pretty girls go by almost as fast as my beer, pause for laughter, I wonder what my trip will be like. Who will I meet? Who do I care about other than myself? The answer to that question – and others – shall be revealed at the end of this series of articles. And I bid you adieu.

Adieu.

To yeu, and yeu, and yeu.