I’m used to a city where I walk down the street and know people by name. My cleaner who comments on how much I’m working out when he hands back my wash and fold. The transgendered cashier at Safeway who always compliments my makeup. My 70-year old friend Rio who sits every night at the old italian resturant and tells me stories of his dates in the 60s, one of which included an almost- naked ride on horseback. The bouncer at my favorite North Beach bar, who has long grey curly hair and a body better than guys 30 years his junior.
And then there’s my friends. My amazing, amazing friends who are family away from home. A community. A support system. A gift from the universe.
And the treasure of having my not-so- kid brother who is only an hour away.
In San Francisco, I’ve got it made. I have my people. I love my town. It’s home.
And now I’m in a place where literally no one knows my name. I talk differently. Dress differently. It takes me 20 minutes to hand over my cash because I can’t tell a one pound coin from a two pound pence. My favorite starbucks drink tastes different. I rode the tube in a full circle on accident. And the only thing double digit about my friend group here is their age.
Yet, the ambiguity is quite beautiful. It forces you to make friends. It encourages you to go on that date. It pushes you to join that local bootcamp and make plans to hang out with them later. In short, you must have a high level of tolerance for the uncomfortable.
I’m in a position where I have no choice but to embrace it, but I think right in our own locales…we can find a way to dive into ambiguity. And when we do, beautiful relationships, adventure and experiences are headed our way.