And so, at a time when I felt a little lost and alone in Los Angeles, I made the decision to move north, to San Francisco, where talk about alone, I knew no one. I take that back. I knew one person, a friend of a friend, and she lived in Burlingame, just south of the City, and she and I corresponded via AOL (the only email there was back then). We decided I would come north and we’d be roommates in an old Victorian in the city. I was excited, and flew up and moved into her Burlingame apartment until we could find our ideal dream apartment. And a day later – I kid you not – her boyfriend got a job offer in Chicago, proposed to her and within two weeks she would leave me here on my own. Okay, now, I really didn’t know a soul.

The moving van came and took every bit of her furniture and belongings, and there I was with a fork, one plate and a room full of beautiful hardwood floors. I went out to the hardware store and bought two rafts – the blow-up kind you buy for the pool, and a roll of duct-tape. I then went out and bought some flannel cowboy sheets I found on sale and headed back to the empty apartment. I duct-taped the two rafts together to make a mattress, tucked the flannel sheets in around them, and made my temporary home. It may sound sad, or depressing, but I can assure you, I was convinced and content knowing I could do anything, and I could do it here in San Francisco. I wasn’t afraid, I wasn’t lonely and I ate a lot of pizza and food that didn’t require a knife or cooking for the next two weeks until the lease ran out.

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Victoria, I Live Here: SF

Sitting, waiting, wishing.