Two months. Two months since I last posted. I’ve got tons of legitimate reasons like travel, family, work, and the start of football season. Life happens, man. But most importantly—to this blog at least—is the fact that I’m leaving my apartment in San Francisco’s Richmond district. Not to worry, though! I’m only moving to Burlingame, so Window to the Bay will continue to be a Bay Area-themed blog. In fact, in most ways very little about my life will change. I’ll now be living walking distance from Millbrae BART—which, no joke, may actually shorten my travel time to downtown San Francisco (yes, inner-city busses are that slow). My rent will be nearly identical—though in Burlingame that same money buys me a second-story apartment with multiple windows and an extra 200 sq ft, interior ventilation, and a front door that opens to the outdoors instead of my neighbor’s garage. My shitty apartment isn’t the only thing I’m leaving behind, though. And so, I’d like to take this moment to reflect on those things I’ll most miss about living in the Richmond—as well as the crap I’m happy to leave behind. What I’ll miss: InfiniTea: I never wrote about this place, but I should’ve. Their boba tea combos are out of this world (black tea-cantaloupe is dank). Really I’ll miss all the Richmond restaurants. So much good food. Golden Gate Park: Here I went pokemon hunting and letterboxing, I discovered a brewery, stumbled through 4/20, saw an albino alligator, took my girlfriend on sweet-ass dates, and learned to play pickleball. I even persuaded a mentally ill man not to bludgeon a seagull to death with a beer bottle. I can’t imagine these same experiences unfolding in downtown Burlingame. The characters: There was Downtown Daryl, who I never actually spotted downtown—or sober for that matter; Gerold the frisbee golf bully and his gang of snickering goons; Flim-flam McGam and his three-tenant van; Galapagos, a dreadlocked, longboarding, 45-year-old weed dealer; Horny Lou—poor, sweet Horny Lou—who, despite his creepy advances, is incapable of making eye contact; Presbytr Vladislav who liked his coffee like he liked his robes—black; some college students upstairs who taught me to play “rage cage”; Supervisor Mark Farrell and his pizza’n’movies publicity parties; Ms. Mint-Chip the masseuse, who set my mind at ease by making sure I saw her wash her hand after the previous client; and “Sidepiece” Sheldon, who once gave me a thirty minute lecture on why I needed “sidepiece” in addition to my girlfriend. My girlfriend says to put “Sidepiece” Sheldon in the following section.
What I’m saying good riddance to: My crazy neighbor: I don’t control the college students upstairs, lady, tell them to stop smoking yourself! And I don’t speak Chinese, so while the tone and volume of your angry rants are indeed frightening, they impart zero useful information. The fog: Depression in vaporous form. City driving: Driving in the City has actually made me a worse person. I remember the first time I drove to my Richmond apartment. I spent the whole time slamming on my breaks, just trying to stay out of way of all the crazy fucks swerving around me. Mere weeks later, I was one of them. I cussed out bicyclists, jockeyed for first place at a red light, and threw my hands up in rage and disgust at anyone going less than 5 mph over the speed limit. At the time I thought I hated everyone on the road. Now I see that all along, I hated what I’d become. The city bus: The city bus offers no better alternative. I mean, I’m sure at some point in time I must’ve taken a bus ride without some unhinged menace dragging me into a public brouhaha, but none are coming to mind. Well San Francisco, so long. It’s been a good ride—no, that’s not true—it’s been a good stay.
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