Moving to New York, what a San Franciscan thing to do. Because San Franciscans are perpetually from somewhere else, they are stuck referencing said place (Eugene, Lincoln, Whidbey Island) in response to origin questions for the entirety of their term in SF. So that they actually have to move somewhere else in order to finally be able to say, “I’m from San Francisco.” In other words, the only way to become a San Franciscan is to move to New York.
It is said, that in New York, you can pick out an expatriated SFian from 50 feet away, 20 feet with a scope.
There they are on the subway, clutching their stomachs and blubbering like Keanu Reeves in Speed, “SOMEBODY STOP THIS RUNAWAY TRAIN!” Public transportation is supposed to be like the N-Judah, an underground tour bus that stops every few feet to let you appreciate the dark tunnel and wonder about lunch.
There’s one now thinking she can get a job when she’s not even a model. And there’s another one thinking she can walk around on the sidewalk when she’s not even a model. These confused SFians are always carrying high heels in their messenger bags, but never finding a good time to put them on. Never being models at all, and feeling fine about it.
There they are thinking that every person who approaches them on the street wants to know if they have a minute for gay rights. And there they are feeling so guilty that they don’t want to share that minute with gay rights that they turn gay on the spot to make up for it, and the German tourist, who just wanted directions to Broadway, is left reeling from the kiss.
There they are accidentally having their first beer after noon on a Saturday and wondering why no one has asked them why they quit drinking.
According to Coyote Ugly, everyone must eventually move to New York and become Graydon Carter.
This becomes necessary when getting third person accounts of horrible weather and really mean people just isn’t enough anymore. When 75 degrees in February becomes blasé. When your lease ends, and you’re ready to break the promise ring that you’d never pay more than $950 a month. When you start to get too happy. When you’re finally ready to be Carrie Bradshaw or at the very least the slutty one, what’s her name, oh yeah, Joan Didion.
I promised myself I would cry, and have been waiting for the tears like a friend you’ve been putting off calling, because she moved, finally, inevitably, to New York.
Ramona Emerson is moving to New York. You can continue to stalk her from afar via her blog.
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