Sam and I used to live on Nob Hill, a few blocks north of Union Square. The location was convenient for the both of us. He had easy access to the freeway as he worked in the East Bay at the time, and my office was eight blocks away in the Financial District. If I didn't eat breakfast at home, I could reasonably crawl out of bed, get cleaned up and dressed, and walk to work in about the same amount of time it would take for the sleep lines on my face to fade. Sometimes less.
Coming home, though, would be a different matter. The eight blocks I could practically roll down in the morning became a vigorous climb in the afternoon, culminating in three steep uphill blocks. When Sam and I first started dating and I would meet him at this very apartment after work, I often would loiter for a few minutes outside of his building, just so I could cool off and not walk into his house as a sweaty, winded mess.
I know that some people commute by train for an hour in order to get into the City. A friend has to take a bus, then a train, and walk 15 minutes to get to work. My sister, who started her new job on Monday, has to drive over half an hour, and there I was, complaining about a 10 or 15 minute walk home. But my laziness knows no bounds, so when Sam and I started househunting, we had one strict dealbreaker: location.
Of course, location of a property is one of the key factors in its value, but I interpreted that word for myself as simply flat topography so I could bike home. And in a neighborhood where I won't get mugged on my way. So we ended up in SoMa.
And it has been great, if only for its location. I leave my office in the afternoons now and am guaranteed to be home within 15 minutes after an easy bike ride. I barely even break a sweat on most days. The "commute" back up California Street to our Nob Hill apartment seems so much longer ago than just one year, and I do not miss it at all.
However, it occurred to me yesterday, as Sam and I walked behind Grr on the side of Bernal Hill, that I have not escaped the incline at all, merely traded California Street for a dirt-and-rock trail. Every day for more days than I can remember now, we have taken Grr to Bernal after work and walked with him on its rolling paths across from the skyline of the City.
When I told Sam of this realization, he said, "At least we have a choice in the matter now."
But not really. If you could see how excited Grr is to see us in the afternoons, when the prospect of a park looms near, you would know, then, that there never was a choice in the matter. And though I have days where I wish I could just go home and sit on the couch, go home and waste time on the internet, go home and play the piano, or just simply go home, which is probably the most tempting option of them all, I think these park trips have been really good for all of us. Physically, for sure, but also, Sam and I talk more. Without all the distractions that we have provided for ourselves at home, we really have no other form of entertainment but each other on these mile-long walks. Just us, the hill, and every step we take together before we return to the car.
Yesterday, I found myself quite a few paces behind them as we climbed the steepest slope of Bernal. I had a headache and felt lethargic, so I just trudged along aimlessly, wandering in my head from thought to thought. When I looked up, I saw Grr zig-zagging from plant to plant, gopher hole to gopher hole, and Sam right behind him, throwing rocks and pine cones to grab Grr's attention. And me, several feet below them, with them, but not really, yet I felt closer to them than ever. I was reminded of what Khalil Gibran had written about friendship: "When you part from your friend, you grieve not; for that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain."
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