views from my Californian home

In the weeks leading up to my departure for Japan, I have been trying to enjoy my current life here at home as much as possible.  There are so many things that I know I'm going to miss.  I want to be able to notice them and appreciate them now, while I can.

I know I'm particularly going to miss the view from the Stockton Street garage in North Beach.

I'm not actually from San Francisco; I was born in the East Bay.  When I travel, it's inevitable that people will ask, "Where are you from?"  I almost always say San Francisco, which is easier than naming and explaining the location of the little-known suburban town where I was raised.  To say I'm from San Francisco isn't too much of an exaggeration, I think; I've worked in the city for the past two-and-a-half years, and have visited it fairly regularly my whole life.  Then again, the distance from my hometown to San Francisco is roughly equivalent to the distance from Kawagoe to Tokyo.

I do feel at home in the city.  I know I'm going to miss the brightly colored buildings, the fog, the people, and the lights.

To end this post, I'll share a poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, former Poet Laureate of San Francisco.


The Changing Light
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The changing light
                 at San Francisco
       is none of your East Coast light
                none of your
                            pearly light of Paris
The light of San Francisco
                        is a sea light
                                       an island light
And the light of fog
                   blanketing the hills
          drifting in at night
                      through the Golden Gate
                                       to lie on the city at dawn
And then the halcyon late mornings
       after the fog burns off
            and the sun paints white houses
                                    with the sea light of Greece
                 with sharp clean shadows 
                       making the town look like
                                it had just been painted

But the wind comes up at four o’clock
                                     sweeping the hills

And then the veil of light of early evening

And then another scrim
                  when the new night fog
                                        floats in
And in that vale of light
                      the city drifts
                                    anchorless upon the ocean