On The Road

Last Monday, I caught an early morning flight out of Logan, bound for a week long work trip to San Francisco.  While I suppose I should simply be grateful it wasn't snow, it was pouring the morning of my departure; the sort of messy winter rain that makes anyone in their right mind want to stay in bed all day.  When my cab pulled up curbside at the proper terminal, I swung my carry-on bag over my shoulder and reached around to wheel my suitcase indoors.  Instantly, one strap on my (new) leather bag popped off.  Grimacing, I kept walking, dodging the raindrops as best and as quickly as possible, when pop went the strap on the other side of my bag.  And...then the bag promptly fell off of my shoulder and onto the wet cement, my wallet, keys, laptop, and all the rest of it went scattering in the rain, the muck, the mud.

Sigh.

It was a great start to the trip, is what I'm getting at.

Of course, it was a rookie movie to bring a bag I hadn't really tested travel wise, one that had yet to prove itself to be tried and true companion on a trip.  I'm typically a smarter packer than that.  And of course, I probably should have known better than to trust a bag bargained for and purchased in the stalls of Marrakesh.  But still.  It wasn't like I had packed bricks in my bag.  And it wasn't exactly the cheapest thing they were selling in Morocco.  Hell, it was made of camel leather! (Allegedly.)

So I carried the broken bag like a baby on my hip through security and onto the plane, bound for the other side of this vast country.  The good news, of course, is that I was headed to my favorite West Coast city; a little spot I am coming to know quite well, one that just happens to sell a few handbags and totes here and there.  Maybe a bit of a flustered start to the week, but I knew I'd come out alright in the end.  (And I did.  As these things usually go, I went into the store for a bag and left with said bag, a dress, and a new belt.  Thank you, January sales.)

This recent work trip was one of the most exhausting that I can remember, it was a week that chewed me up and spit me out, sending me home on Friday so deliriously tired I barely even knew my own name by the time I arrived back at SFO five days after I'd arrived, ready to fly East.  It was also a trip that did not really allow for much time away from our hotel, the conference rooms, and sessions we were attending, which meant by day three I found myself growing restless and frustrated that here I was, in SAN FRANCISCO for goodness sakes, and given that I'd barely walked a block beyond our hotel, I could have been anywhere USA.

Thankfully, wonderfully, I eventually found a handful of hours when I had some precious downtime.  The minute I knew I wasn't needed immediately, I escaped the Union Square Hilton as quickly as possible, wandering my usual routes through Chinatown and North Beach, with a pit stop at City Lights Bookstore and Vesuvio's.  A co-worker and I grabbed dinner in the Mission one night, and the last afternoon I was in town, I made it over to Nob and Russian Hill, walking along Hyde until I caught one of my favorite glimpses of that gorgeous Golden Gate; a bridge I have come to regard as a friend, if a bridge can be such a thing.

There is something that hits me, each and every time I land in San Francisco, that I can't quite articulate.  There is a part of me that breathes in the California air, the sunshine, the fog, and feels like a small piece of me has arrived at my final destination.  I suppose it makes sense, as it is often said that Boston and San Francisco are sister cities.  And as I walk among the streets of the City by the Bay, I can picture myself, see a life I could have lived there, had I moved West in my twenties as I was sometimes tempted to do.

I love that city so very much; I have never tired of exploring her hilly streets and various neighborhoods.  And yet, there is something that hits me too - maybe just a touch harder than it does out West, whenever I land back in Boston.  It is crisp, cold, paced at the East Coast speed and temperament I have known forever.  And always, as sad as I am to bid farewell to San Francisco when I leave, I always find I am so happy to get back to Boston, back East, back home.