Allow me to introduce myself...

San Francisco is like a glass of full bodied red wine, aged but not necessarily to perfection. With a slight hint of bitter aftertaste, it can knock you off your high horse as quickly as it can make you drunkenly walk its docks with rose colored glasses that always accompany rosy cheeks from both cheap wine and a crisp bay breeze. It is the reflection in the glass of rolling hills covered with millions of people nestled in their comfy flats, bridges that put you in awe of man, or rocky beaches that allow a slight vinegar in your wine acceptable. I moved here with no goal in mind but to become alive. The struggle of growing up in a small town in North Georgia has not been not knowing who I was, but more so what do I do? San Francisco is a facilitator for a lifestyle that many of us want to live but cannot seem to make possible in other cities. It's not a golden key that unlocks doors or an Emerald City where your dreams come true. The doors are so heavy, you may not be able to get to it before it's closed on you in this city. The great thing though is that there are so many windows that are cracked open just enough for you to slip one foot in, take a look around, maybe even creep up to the roof to soak in yet another amazing view, and then decide for yourself if you'd like to sit still or if you'd like to take your chances on another window. My cozy hood of the infamous Godfather'esque North beach is an interesting fit for me, but I'll be taking a slight vacation from this city to catch my breath and catch up on money soon. Nostalgia is the motivation for my writing. I have experienced so much in just one year that I realized today it's a shame to not write it all down. And so I begin. The journey of a country mouse in a big bad city where you have two choices: drink the bitter wine or pass. I decided to drink. I ran up and down stairs to Coit Tower this morning where the first telegraph was sent from, walked up and down Chestnut Street where the infamous Bullet car scene was shot, up over the hill where the bay once babysat prisoners, past a lemon tree thats fruit hang over the fence next to the Italian villa of San Francisco Art Institute where Diego Rivera painted a mural, down again Union Street where I picked lavender from a neighbor's front door, past Cafe Trieste where poets and writers from Kerouac to Coppola pumped out creations as quickly as baristas pack espresso, where Italian men scream "Ciao Bella" to every pretty face that passes, onto my alley way where the Saloon screams of deep blues on the weekends and the slight stinch of urine always lingers. Your legs will be tired, your feet will feel broken those first few days, but you'll take a deep sigh of relief when you reach your front door and know that there's no option but to just be here now.