You can’t go home again

As if the current bout of nostalgia I mentioned in my last post wasn’t enough, my old roommate Palle just moved out of the place we shared for nearly a decade, and which was my homebase when visiting San Francisco after moving to the UK.

It’s good news really, he’s upgrading and off to new adventures. But I’m having some feelings about it; first of all it means I am unlikely to see our cat Harold again. She’s already in her teens, and he’s moving to Arizona, which is someplace I don’t have much reason to visit (Palle I’ll see at Gallifrey One). She’s a great cat, and I’ve missed her, so although I knew this was coming it’s still a bit of a bummer.

Secondly, seeing Palle and hanging around Taraval has been one of the best part of our trips when John and I have flown out to SF the last few years; getting burritos from EBX and watching Blake’s 7 together. Then having breakfast at the Tennessee Grill before heading off for the day.

More generally, that in-law on 25th Ave is actually the place I’ve lived the longest in my life. So, as well as missing the physical place itself, it’s tangled up with memories of a whole period of my life. Missing it is tied up with missing SF generally, Bay Area conventions and friends. It makes my move here feel that little bit more final.

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