Years ago, I wandered through Patricia’s Green in Hayes Valley. Amid the perfectly manicured lawn, various options for overpriced coffee, and a grimy Burning Man structure, I dreamed of the perfect life I could live if only I lived in San Francisco.
I don’t remember where I was living at the time — in D.C. or Mountain View or at home with my parents in Palo Alto. But wherever I was, I was feeling unfulfilled. And in my very active imagination, San Francisco was the place where, I figured, I’d find happiness (and a job, hopefully). I conjured up images of sunlight streaming through big bay windows and across hardwood floors, coaxing my growing jungle of plants out of their pots toward every corner of the room. There were so many plants that I wouldn’t be able to find my husband. (In my fantasies, I’m really good with plants.)
Now I live in that apartment of my dreams, save for my shitty kitchen and dishwasher, which works only when it’s attached to the sink. I’ve even kept a pothos plant for two years, though growing an all-out jungle proved to be too pricey for my frugal sensibilities.
But after a year and a half in San Francisco, my perfect dream life started to feel stale, and I started to feel antsy. As the novelty of the city wore off, new spots became old haunts, and an uncharted sidewalk became another feces-filled path on my way to somewhere I didn’t really want to go anyway. Empty pots lined my shelves, and I neglected those bygone fantasies of an indoor jungle (my husband was annoyingly easy to find). Everything around me felt stiflingly familiar, and I found myself daydreaming of starting over in faraway places. All despite the knowledge that I was among the fortunate few surviving the skyrocketing housing prices. (Or more accurately, I’d thoughtlessly followed the flow that caused it.)
My generation moves around a lot. According to a 2015 study by FiveThirtyEight, the average American moves six times by the age of 30. But when it comes to relocating lives, I’m solidly above average. Since my 16th birthday, I’ve lived in 12 to 19 different dwellings in 8 to 11 different cities, depending on how you count. And as a result, it seems that I’ve developed an almost reflexive reaction to prolonged stationary comforts: if I stay still too long, I’ll experience an overwhelming urge to be absolutely anywhere else.
What, though, was driving my need for newness? Could one city after another actually lose its luster after a year and a half?
My hunger for a new home, it seemed, wasn’t so much about being somewhere new; it was about being someone new.
For so long, I’d taken pride in my geographic flexibility. I’d touted the advantages of a life untethered, the merits of change, and the opportunities born from discomfort. I preached the benefits of nomadic living and turned my nose up at those parochial people who lived their entire lives within a 10-mile radius.
“Moving to new places opens you up to new ideas,” I self-righteously proclaimed. “I can make friends anywhere,” I annoyingly bragged. “It looks like she hasn’t met anyone new in 20 years,” I judgmentally thought as I scrolled photos I shouldn’t have been looking at in the first place.
Yes, I’ve gained a lot from a life spent more or less on the move. I’ve gotten to know different places, people, and cultures. I’ve seen that my way of life — from my job to my clothes to my idea of what constitutes breakfast food (everyone in D.C. works in politics; SF fashion is best described as “tech-company couture”; and for some reason, Israelis eat tuna fish for breakfast) — isn’t the only way to live. I’ve met other transient yuppies from places I’d only ever read about, and I grew a friends list of people based all over the planet. Wherever I travel — Paris, Amsterdam, London, Mexico City, Lisbon — there’s someone with whom I can reconnect, grab coffee, or talk shit. Transience has hammered the rigidity out of my outlook, softening my perspective into something more malleable. It’s taught me that when viewed from the other side of the globe, the entire world looks different.
After 13 semi-nomadic years, one and a half years on Fell Street — a few short blocks from the Patricia’s Green of my fantasies—was my longest stint in one apartment. Typically, I’d spend 10 months in one place, then pick up, and move on for whatever reason: My partner asked me to move in with him. Or D.C. wasn’t for me (I wasn’t sure which I hated more — the weather or the job market). Or I couldn’t stand one more moment in Mountain View’s suburban hellscape.
When I managed to stay in one city, one neighborhood, and one apartment, I became a part of it.
Three fruitless moves later, and clearly the problem wasn’t the city or the apartment or the neighborhood, but me. My hunger for a new home, it seemed, wasn’t so much about being somewhere new; it was about being someone new.
But after a year and a half living in the middle of San Francisco, finally, I was reaping the early benefits of staying put. My grocer noticed if I didn’t show up; the local cafe owner knew me by name; and I’d made a whole thing out of befriending my neighbors. Finally, I’d found myself rooted, even if those roots were still sparse and spindly.
I started to see everything that my transience had cost me. When I managed to stay in one city, one neighborhood, and one apartment, I became a part of it. I started to recognize the people who live next door, who walk their dogs, and who frequent the same cafes, parks, and bars.
With such short stays in so many different places, I’d only ever allowed myself to live on the surface of cities.
And they started to recognize me. We smiled at each other on the street, then stopped to chat. Those minute- or even seconds-long interactions added up to something more significant, and I learned important details about their lives. Eventually, I knew to ask about things that mattered, whether it was the elementary-school security guard’s trip home to Nigeria or my favorite barista’s weekend concert.
Over time, I became another character in the cast that my neighbors expected to see in the elevator, at the park, or at the local cafe. My apartment became not just another place in which to live but a part of my identity.
Finally, at 29, I’d suddenly been hit by the revelation that my semi-nomadic life wasn’t the only way to be happy — that while I’d learned so much from my constant home-hopping, the only way to unpeel a city’s layers is to commit.
With such short stays in so many different places, I’d only ever allowed myself to live on the surface of cities. Sure, I made some like-minded friends with similar backgrounds, but I never became a part of the place, a familiar face, or a regular local. I had never made the time to dig deeper, so I couldn’t exert the energy to understand a city’s intricacies. I had never stayed long enough for seemingly superficial interactions to add up to something greater than the sum of their parts to sow the slow-growing seeds of prolonged familiarity and reap meaningful acquaintanceships.
After all, upward growth requires more than only fertile soil — it requires time.
With the rise of tech, San Francisco has become a popular pit stop on the road to adulthood. It’s a city filled with temporary residents who come to advance their careers and leave to move on with their lives. Who could blame them? Raising a family with these ever-escalating rent and housing prices seems increasingly unimaginable.
But ultimately, this temporariness affects the culture, character, and overall feel of San Francisco and leaves me to wonder whether it’s even possible to put down roots in a city of transients. Am I wishfully forcing stability in a place where everyone else is moving away?
Even now, after publishing this piece, I can’t say with certainty that I believe that stability is better — only that it’s different. I’m still fighting the urge to move, still fending off fantasies of who I might be in New York City, L.A., or Europe. Life is unpredictable, and the world is full of possibilities. (Two clichés are better than one.)
However, as long as I do stay in San Francisco, I don’t want to merely exist. I want to live here.
