The Difference Between Living in New York and San Francisco
Sarah Cooper

Loving Frisco

The first time I went to San Francisco, I immediately fell in love with it. I know it may sound kind of corny. I mean, when I say: “I immediately fell in love with San Francisco”, I can’t help remembering something one of Michael Cunningham’s characters, Louis Waters, says in the movie adaptation of “The Hours”:

It’s one of those cities people tell you to like.

Yes it is. And yet. I now live in Lyon, which in my opinion is the closest place to Frisco France has to offer. But when I close my eyes, I remember the first place that fed me upon arrival (Lorie’s on Sutter), as I was a young student, alone, cold (Frisco in July), with a heavy suitcase and still unaware of that West-Coast world lying ahead for me to discover.

I remember my first picnic (bought from Buffalo Whole Food & Grain Company on Castro), which I ate sitting alone on someone’s porch (they saw me, I looked at them apologetically, my mouth full with a bite of barbecue-style veggie burger, and they just sent me the brightest smile).

I remember my first time getting lost on purpose (which led me to Fay Park on Leavenworth), my first time on the Golden Gate (there were people wearing pink and running for a breast cancer fundraising) and my first time crying (for there has been many other times since) when finally, excruciatingly, I had to leave.

Yep, that definitely sounds corny, but here I am many years later, sitting in that café in Lyon, an empty cup of café latte in front of me, thinking: “I love you, Frisco.”


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