East Coast, West Coast rivalry
My journey to San Francisco was a whirlwind of emotions. As I sat in the backseat of an airport-bound cab and watched the New York skyline fade in the swirl of blue skies and wispy clouds, I felt incredibly lucky. Technically, this was a business trip (yay ONA), but it consisted of all the work that I love: networking with incredibly talented photographers who are also just good people, meeting with the minds behind the brands I admire, going to a gallery opening and a photowalk with a backdrop of San Francisco fog. And I was going on this trip because I had the courage to ask for it, because I was proactive in saying why I should be there.
But as I looked out the plane window and saw the twinkling skyscrapers below, I felt an overwhelming jolt of sadness to leave the city behind—if only for a few days. I adore the life I’ve created in New York City: I have a relationship that leaves me constantly smiling, an incredibly supportive and hilarious and beautiful group of friends, an apartment that truly feels like home, a job that is creatively challenging and rewarding.
Lately, I’ve been debating my devotion to New York City. I’ve showed off my favorite neighborhoods to visiting friends, and I’ve confidently declared that this would be the next neighborhood I’d like to live in, this would the neighborhood I could imagine growing old in. As I nagged friends about voting on Election Day, they turned the question around on me: when was I going to become a New York resident?
I’ve been clinging to my residency in California: being Californian is as much a part of my identity as being a woman, an only child, a traveler, a writer. My tight-knit community of friends in New York—the ones who I’ve traded house keys with, the ones who pop by on short notice for wine and takeout, the ones who never miss a birthday party—are all originally from California. Our gorgeous AHeirloom California cutting board is my favorite focal piece in our apartment. I love watching the Giants and the 49ers and Kings at the Northern California bar in East Village, surrounded by fellow fans.
I wrote all of that on the flight to San Francisco. I was going to end it with some pithy statement about how even though I loved California, New York was the right place for me right now. About how being Californian is even more special when you’re not in California. And then I landed in San Francisco. Instead of fog, there was sun. I ditched my layers and scarves, and sat in the sunshine. I ate really good tacos. I drank really good coffee. And all I can think about is why I ever left California.
I’ve always known that I suffer from a bit of a “the grass is greenest RIGHT HERE” problem when I travel. Wherever I am, I can imagine making that place home: I’ve thought about settling down in practically every city I visit. So I’m not sure how seriously to take my current infatuation with San Francisco: is it because it’s familiar, because it’s a gorgeous city, because that’s where my heart belongs?
Honestly, I’m not sure. New York City is home for now, but San Francisco will always be waiting.
