Back to Boston

I really don't think San Francisco wanted me to leave. Or I didn't want to leave it. Or both. First, I forgot to return my room key to the hostel. It was funny how after only a few days, it had begun to feel like home. Maybe holding on to the key was some subconscious desire to stay. I don't know. But the driver of the airport van was nice enough to volunteer to take the key back for me, and the people at the hostel said they would send me my deposit, which is just so very decent of them.

Then, when I got to the airport, I had a massive hold-up at the check-in counter. I thought I would never even make it to the security gate.

I was kind of sad when I did, too. And I was sad when I got on the plane.

Arriving in Boston the next morning I had a momentary feeling of home, and returning from a long journey, which I was. But immediately after that, the anxiety set in. Darn, I was home.

So I went back to my place and made scrambled eggs. I brushed my teeth in the same old bathroom with the same blue-flowered wallpaper, and I thought about the hostel and the cable cars going up and down the hills. And now it's cold here. Blah.

But I've been there. I've seen it. And next time I'm not even going to bother getting a return flight.