Ten years ago on March 24, I got on a plane headed west. I was leaving New York – a city I call home because that is where I first landed as an immigrant – and was headed to San Francisco to take a job at (the now defunct) Business 2.0 magazine. It wasn’t by choice that I was moving — I spent a couple of years during the Internet Bubble in San Francisco — and always wanted to move back to the Big Apple. And there I was, back in San Francisco, again!
To be honest, I didn’t really want to be in SF. That is why I never gave up my New York phone number or my storage unit, where thousands of my books sit, in quiet wait for me to comeback and take them out of their quiet air conditioned cell. Once, I even talked my boss into transferring me to New York, where I am told there was an office for me in the Time-Life building along with a functioning phone line, a luxury I have not enjoyed in San Francisco. But something stopped me from going back.
A few months later, I had packed up, moved out the 29th floor of No. 1, California Street, eschewing lovely views of the San Francisco Bay and instead opting for a sidewalk office right across from my apartment. It turned out to be a good move, for I got a chance to live my dream and indulge in my passion for blogging and writing. Just like that, ten years went by
Fast forward to the future, as luck would have it, I was flying back to San Francisco from New York on the same day, March 24th. Life has a strange way of repeating itself.