One of my most vivid memories of camp last year is of Joybubbles, who, during the talent show after-party in the tea yurt, got up to deliver an impassioned, impromptu speech about bravery.
I stayed two nights last week at an Airbnb in South Berkeley, a looming purple house just off of Ashby Avenue, separated from the road by a dense thicket of vegetation. It was cheap, around $45 per night. I was filling space between six days of catsitting in the city and a weekend trip to Arizona. The listing touted a “hostel-like” experience, five rooms for rent in a shared space. The hosts, M. and A., were responsive and detailed in their communication. I was hopeful.
There are a few words commonly used to describe how I am living. Depending on who you ask, I am “nomadic” or transient. Footloose or bicoastal. Remote. Home-free. All of these words have their own connotations but are, generally speaking, apolitical.
Perhaps one of the most heart-wrenching discoveries of adulthood is that people, even our closest friends, don’t, as it turns out, think about us all too often.
It’s been 47 days since I moved out of my apartment on Lyon Street. Since then I’ve spent time in Portland, Oregon; Brooklyn, New York; and Burlington, Vermont. Last Wednesday, I arrived back in San Francisco, where I’ll be living for the next three weeks.