Baseball season is here. March is already done and dusted. Let’s just say it is time for some serious spring cleaning. And for me, that means clearing out all those links that had piled up in my Pocket account. I have been reading more than usual for the past few weeks, mostly due to my health has slowed me down, and I was forced to take it easy and recover properly.
As an aside, with the clock turning on March, I have been in San Francisco for sixteen years at a stretch, eighteen in total, and yet I don’t feel like it is home. I have formed many great friendships. I have become part of two partnerships. I love the weather. The food scene is fantastic. The medical system in the city is the sole reason I am alive.
And yet, somehow it doesn’t feel like home. I guess when you are born somewhere, grew up elsewhere and are living in another place; you are never sure about the location of your axis, around which your life revolves. Ten years ago, I had the same feelings about San Francisco. This is what I wrote then:
Our physical interaction with a place defines how we feel about that place. New York’s streets and corners have a story attached to them, and I guess that gives a sense of belonging, and in the process act as markers on the timeline called life. I don’t feel that same way about San Francisco, even though I have lived here for ten years. I guess it will always be a place where I live, just not home.
I don’t quite know what will be my next destination.