I arrived in San Francisco on Tuesday morning at 9am, just as all the tech bros were scurrying off to their offices in their standard uniform Patagonia fleeces of varying shades of grey. I decided to walk to my hostel, passing the JPMorgan office, where a girl sat in front of the building lighting up a huge, fat blunt. I guess that tracks for California.
Here I was, wearing my backpack, a sun hoodie and leggings – my new uniform. Long gone now are my suit jackets, heels and dresses from my time at JPMorgan. That was a completely other life.
I decided to walk to my hostel which was in Nob Hill. It was humid and warm, much warmer than any days I had trained outside in Washington. I sat down at one point and my butt left a sweat print outline on the cold stone slab, quickly evaporating. That was one hot ass.
Just for a second, I found a tiny glimpse of self doubt – this isn’t even as hot as the desert will be, are you sure you can do this? I checked the humidity level in San Francisco compared to the desert and it was more than double. I told the doubt to go away, and it did.
I arrived at the hostel and my room wasn’t ready until 3pm despite the website saying 11am. I took a nap in a common area and half awake eavesdropped to some of the conversations around me – someone talking about how he was a big model in the 90s, discussing film noir, fashion as art. After being in my hiker world for the last 6 months thinking about, researching about, reading about, watching about, talking about – hiking, backpacking, the PCT, gear, resupply – it was a welcome change, if those were even real conversations, and not just my delirium from not sleeping at all on the train.
The next day, I decided to walk all the way across the city to visit with my aunt. I walked 10 miles from Nob Hill through Golden Gate Park and then down all the way to Daly City. San Francisco hills are perfect for a pre-PCT hike. It wasn’t as hot, and the walk felt good. I visited with my aunt for afternoon tea.
I used to live here in the bay area, when I was a very young child. I was actually born here. All of my memories are of my aunt. I don’t have that many memories of this place that don’t somehow involve her. The sole reason I came to San Francisco on the way to the PCT was to see her, as the city feels foreign and unfamiliar to me otherwise.
I don’t know if it’s the wide mix of architecture, or the number of self driving Waymos which I’ve never seen before, or the noticeable unfriendliness of people on the sidewalks who don’t smile or say hello in return, but San Francisco doesn’t feel like home to me at all. Boston and Philadelphia – other places I have lived, also don’t feel like home to me when I go back to visit. But when I leave the Pacific Northwest, it becomes obvious to me just how much I feel at home there – not even Seattle or Tacoma specifically, but in the sweet smell of pine in the air, the cold and wet skies.
I keep joking that I’m just walking home on the PCT. Home to Washington. On the days that I think fuck this I want to go home – well, I am. Keep on walking honey.
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