A Foggy City

Every other weekend I’d go into San Francisco with a few best friends. I adored exploring the unknown corners of the foggy city. We’d get off any train stop and walk through a labyrinth of grey skyscrapers and tourists with fanny packs and piers and pretentiously overpriced cafes and cable cars and streets on hills so steep, that the sidewalks were staircases. We’d grab coffee in the Ferry Building, surrounded by a panoramic view of the Bay, or we’d head to lunch in the Mission District, where street art was abundant. I loved going to the MOMA on Thursday nights when I had the time and admission was free. Or maybe I’d go for a walk at Land’s End, and stand on top of Eagle Point, overlooking the vast ocean. I always tried to get to know San Francisco as well as I could, but every time I got off the train, I’d come across a new area I didn’t know existed.  Coming from Oakland, I prided myself on having the status of a San Francisco Bay Area local, but I still struggled to give directions when a tourist asked. Perhaps part of the reason I never bothered with directions in the city was because the adventure of getting lost always appealed to me. The city was familiar and mysterious to me at once; the blanket of fog always obscured my home in a way that comforted me. I liked knowing that I’d never get bored and would always have a new area to explore. I’ll miss living in the Bay Area, but I also look forward to forming this relationship with Philadelphia. While I do hope to eventually know Philadelphia better, I’m drawn to the mystery of a new place.