It’s spring, and we’re leaving soon. It’s becoming real, and my brain is responding by cranking up the volume on the San Francisco’s sounds, sights, and (for better or worse) smells. 

Oft-passed corners on my regular walking routes aren’t routine anymore – they’re alive. Brightly-colored, tightly-packed houses transform into pastel street mosaics, succulent gardens overflow with textures and life, jasmine trees slap me across the face with sweet vapor when I least expect it. Downtown: the odor of piss, the sight of tall buildings. The feeling of concrete underfoot. Steam rising from manholes. Clouds of marijuana dancing with tobacco. 

Saying goodbye to a home usually consists of rushing to pack, shedding a quick tear upon departure, and forever wishing that I could go back and bathe in it. But this time? I’m not leaving before I’ve collected a lifetime’s worth of sensations. 

I’m drinking it. Greedy. Heavy and deep. Tasting, touching, sniffing, lying in grass, waving at people, feeling the California sun as if I’ve never felt it before.