The last episode of a good TV series is almost never the best episode or even a particularly good one. At worst, you get a clip show, a rehash of all the “top” moments over the course of several seasons. Or the writers try to tie up every conceivable loose end for every character with a neat little bow to the point of making it completely contrived. At best, you get a resolution to the major storylines, but there’s just enough left open-ended for some of the characters to make you wish just a little that the show would continue. But even that practically guarantees the last episode won’t be the one you walk away remembering.
This is a very long way of saying that I had no idea how to spend my last night in San Francisco.
I could have gone on a whirlwind tour around the city, hitting every major neighborhood in which I’d ever lived or made a memory. I could have gone to one of my favorite restaurants and had a really great last meal. I could have gathered some friends to have a big party, stayed up too late and gone to the airport in the morning with a hangover. But my best memories of this place didn’t happen that way. They weren’t carefully orchestrated events. They happened organically, over time, when I was least expecting.
We don’t remember beginnings and endings so much as the little things that happen in between. Call it cliché, but it really is all about the journey.
There’s a reason Empire Strikes Back is the best Star Wars film, and it’s not just because of Irvin Kershner. (On second thought, bad example. It is because of Irvin Kirshner.) It’s also because it’s the middle of the story. The part where everything gets messy and strange and you don’t quite know where it’s going yet. That’s what we like. That’s what we’re drawn to.
I’m greatful that I made the transition from high school English teacher to a graphic artist, to a designer, to the beginnings of an entrepreneur here. I’m grateful I had the opportunity to work for Apple, to meet Steve Jobs and get a few good stories of my own to tell before he passed. For all the music I made and performed, the few good friends I made that are still good friends and will continue to be, and even the people I just met in passing. For all the amazing places to which I had easy access, from San Diego, to Los Angeles, to Pismo, Carmel, Monterrey, Santa Cruz, Half-Moon Bay, Sonoma, Russian River, Mt. Tam, Mt. Shasta, the Avenue of the Giants, Tahoe, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver—just to name a few.
I wasn’t going to top any of that tonight. I wasn’t going to do anything I was going to remember ten years from now. So instead I wandered the streets a bit, with no particular direction, felt the city air, listened to its beautiful noise. And then I came home early, to the empty apartment, to write down a few thoughts and go to bed early.
I had made my peace. I had said my goodbyes.
This isn’t the time for reliving the past. It isn’t the time for a last-ditch effort to enjoy a place I’ve already enjoyed plenty. It’s the space between getting ready to go and going. A brief moment, a deliberate breath, before I open the door and start walking again.
Twelve and-a-half years, Bay Area. And particularly San Francisco. It’s been a great ride. What’s next?
