“In the end we only regret the chances we didn’t take.”
Yesterday marked one year since I transplanted myself to San Diego, without any clue as to the ‘why’, the ‘how’ and the ‘for how long’. And here I am, twelve months since I stepped off the plane, and I would be lying if I didn’t admit that sometimes I still have no friggin clue. The good news? I am happy. I am obsessed with my apartment, my bills are paid and for the first time in a long time I feel like I am exactly where I want to be. I have a direction, a small group of weird — thought admittedly awesome friends — and I am in a total love stricken, honeymoon phase of my relationship with San Diego. It wasn’t always like this. A year ago today — on my first full day in the city — I was sipping on my first cup of San Diego coffee, quietly wondering if I’ll ever find a job, an apartment or, I’ll just say it, a friend, before having to pitch a tent and joining the ranks of neighborly So-Cal transients in the East Village. And this time another year back, I was probably crying over Part 2 of my breakup. Let’s see, it was February….so yep, crying. Or sneering at people.
From Russia, With A Glove 