It was the day before I was set to move back to Oregon. The morning in May 1989 dawned bright and sunny, something very rare in San Francsico's generally foggy climate. The Blacklist party had been fun, but I knew I was gonna have to spend the day cleaning up. I didn't regret inviting everyone over though. It was a way of throwing myself a good bye party without actually having to tell anyone I was leaving.
I got up and made some coffee, and as I was sitting down to drink it, and get my head together so I could clean up the disaster that was the living room, I noticed there was someone sitting out on the curb in front of my flat. It was Harry. He had come back to help me, just like he said he would. I was so shocked, at first I wasn't sure what to do. One of the things I had figured out early on about most punks is that very rarely do they follow through on the things they say they're gonna do. Most people in "the scene" were flaky to put it mildly. So seeing him sitting out there so early really threw me for a loop. I opened the window and shouted out to him. He looked up with a big smile on his face and started up the drive way.
When he came into the house, I offered him some coffee and asked him what he was doing there, still not believing he was there to help me. But he was. He had promised to come back and he had been sitting out there for almost an hour waiting for me to wake up. I was touched by how sweet that gesture of enthusiasm was and gave him a big hug of thanks. With the extra pair of hands, we had the house cleaned up in no time, and decided to go get some Chinese food, which both of us agreed was one of the best things for a hangover: spicey, greasy and really filling, but easily digested.
We laughed and talked, and shared more about ourselves. I told him I was leaving the next day to move back to Oregon, and he truly seemed sad. I had to laugh as I told him I had been there 9 months wanting to connect with people, but finally felt like I had to give up, admit defeat and surrender to the fact that maybe I wasn't a city girl after all. We had so much in common. Both of us came from large Catholic families and had similar work ethics and political opinions. We both liked so many of the same bands, and yearned for something deeper and more meaninful in our lives.
As we parted ways, we agreed to stay in touch. This of course was before the days of email and cell phones, so we were gonna have to do it the old fashioned way, through letters, personal visits and the occasional long distance phone call. We hugged good bye and he walked off down the hill to catch the bus back home. I went inside to start packing up my personal belongings.
As I loaded my car the next morning, getting ready for the 10 hour drive back to Oregon, I was filled with a deep sense of sadness and loss, but also relief. I felt like I had been defeated, like the city had beaten me, and I was going home with my tail between my legs. Dreams crushed, soul weary.
But on the other hand, I couldn't wait to get home to see all my friends and family, and to feel the peace of being some place familiar. I was just gonna have to accept that I wasn't ready for such dramatic changes, but I had sure learned alot about myself, and in the end, I had made several good friends. All in all, it had been worth it, and I didn't regret giving it a shot.
As I headed back over the Bay Bridge towards I-80 East, I looked into my rear view mirror, and blew the city a kiss good bye. I had given it a my best, but now it was time to go home, to a place where I could heal and regroup, and figure out what the next step would be.
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