living in San Francisco is kind of like living in twenty countries at once, execpt the signs are (mostly) in English. I hear at least five different languages on the street or the bus every day, and am consistenly confused when I see people reading backwards in chinese. It’s become even more of a tourist hotspot since the dollar started dropping… hey everyone, the US is on sale! But I love that I get to come home to my own comfy bed every night. No saggy hostel mattresses for me.
I’m only half serious, of course, since there’s still so much of the world I want to see, but I think about this topic at frequent intervals. I am fortunate to have a life filled with friends who love to travel, several of whom are planning for extended trips or living in countries around the world. So I often ask myself, how come I don’t have this same desire to live in a foreign country? Although, after last year’s adventures, I would strongly consider living in Buenos Aires, Mendoza, or Santiago de Chile, I think that my parents just got this impulse out of the way for me early on… I’m well-traveled, whether I remember it or not!
The other reason I keep pondering the multiculturalism of San Francisco is even more self-centered: It used to be the case, quite often, that I would have the most unique name out of any given group of people. Not so much anymore. I know that’s a good thing, but it’s an interesting way that I appreciate what a unique city this is, and the diverse collection of people that I have met here so far.
Now if only I had magic powers to make it 10 degrees warmer, and clear the fog away…
