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When the party ends – A San Francisco Irish Exit

31 Jul

It’s been strangely muggy this summer. The fog, is of course, a cloud full of water, but usually the air in July has quite a chill, especially when like clockwork, the sea breeze picks up as the sun sets everyday. But as I look out my window today the trees are standing dead still, and sweat is gathering behind my neck.

When I first moved here from Boston seven years ago, I cursed the lack of seasons. Gone were my familiar markers of time, and the days faded into one another. Sun, Fog, Wind. Sun, Fog, Wind. Eventually, I learned to pick up on the subtleties. The freshness of the air in December, not unlike an early fall day in New England. The piles of leaves that gather in the sidewalks between the rainy months, never enough to jump in, or look pretty, but enough to run through with your feet and hear the comforting “Sch, Sch”. Or, the dark mornings of summer, when Karl the Fog hugs the city so tightly that we all want to stay wrapped in our blankets, for just five more minutes.

But now, it seems, that not only is the weather changing, but my life is too.

In a few weeks, I will be packing up our little family and moving to Saint Louis. Yes, you heard that right. Saint Louis, Missouri. Flyover country. The Midwest. A borderline red state. Thousands of miles from an ocean. And the craziest part? I couldn’t be happier about it.

The nitty gritty: We can’t afford SF.

 

 


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