One year later: I’m exhilarated and terrified and grateful, which is perhaps precisely as it should be. The world feels full of possibility.
"This is the only way, we say; but there are as many ways as there can be drawn radii from one centre. All change is a miracle to contemplate; but it is a miracle which is taking place every instant."
Step 1: Coffee. Be civil, be urban.
Step 2: Farragut Square. Damn the torpedoes!
Step 3: Brainstorm. More Post-its.
I’ve been thinking about the word “provincial” lately. It has negative connotations: a rube, someone of narrow scope and mind. At its best, “provincial” feels like a quainter, more polite way to describe an unsophisticated rustic than “bumpkin” (or “unsophisticated rustic,” for that matter).
I love my corner of the Mission in San Francisco. Particularly when I’m working from home, I can go for days at a time without leaving a ten-block radius. There’s coffee, sandwiches, a good bar, yoga, a park, and a well-stocked corner store—the owner of which makes remarkably good baba ganoush—not to mention cafés and restaurants all within easy reach.
Isn’t the option to exist provincially, to live locally without navigating massive expanses in a car on a daily basis, one of the great boons of the city?