The Nomadic Life

A Nice City That Never Felt Like Home

Chapter 31

I spent over a year in San Francisco. It is a city full of charm, fog, and coffee shops on every corner to ensure you never lose that morning buzz. I enjoyed the nightlife, the sense of community, and of course, the hook-ups. There was always something, or someone, to do. Which, ironically, became the problem.

You hustle all week just to hand your paycheck over to your landlord, PG&E, and Safeway. If you find yourself with anything left, you get to play Cinderella for one glittery night out a month. You must choose that single night carefully. You can no longer afford spontaneity; all your outings must be perfectly planned and every penny accounted for.

For me, that one magical night was usually Sunday Beer Bust at The Eagle in South of Market. A glorious dive where leather, laughter, and lagers collided in the most chaotic harmony. It was gritty. It was wild. It was… exhausting. After months of soaking in that scene, the realization came to me, I wasn’t making friends, I was merely collecting bar acquaintances like matchbooks.

Because I love a good party, with a beer in one hand and existential dread in the other, I soldier on, convincing myself that the cost of such fun is worth the emotional and monetary cost.

I’m ultimately someone who craves connection more than cocktails. Because after the glitter settles and the bass fades, you often find yourself left with an empty bed, an empty stomach, and, worst of all, an empty heart.

Eventually, San Francisco started to feel less like a city and more like a very expensive, very foggy Disneyland. Great to visit. Hard to live in. For a wandering soul like me, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself, it just never quite felt like home.

Still, no regrets. Every city I’ve passed through has taught me something. Sometimes it was a life lesson. Sometimes a broken heart, and sometimes, if I was lucky, I found a new piece of myself I did not realize was missing.

Yes, San Francisco was fun. And one day, I’d love to go back, for a visit. But I know I can never recapture the magic of that first time. That thrill of discovery, of turning the unknown into the familiar. If I return now, it will be like flipping through an old yearbook, nostalgic, sweet, but tinged with the awkward knowledge that time has moved on, and so have I.

There’s a saying: You can never go back home.

I used to think that was nonsense. Of course you can go home, cars, trains, planes, heck, even your thumb can get you there if you are brave, patient and charming enough. But that is not what the phrase means.

See, home isn’t a location. It’s a sensation. It’s the place where your heart feels like it has finally exhaled and you fall in love with mornings, not just the people you meet at night. It is where the quiet moments matter just as much as the loud ones. It is not just a location on the map, it is a place where you feel you belong.

It’s where you let yourself put down roots, not because you have to, but because something in the air whispers, stay. A place where vulnerability no longer seems like a risk, but a kind of peace.

It’s not about having all the answers. It’s about no longer needing to ask the questions. You realize you are no longer chasing the path, searching for the road of discovery. Here in this special place, you begin to feel it, unfolding beneath your feet like it was always meant to be there. A city, a town, a tucked-away corner of the world that doesn’t just welcome you, it recognizes you.

And in that quiet recognition, something stirs and settles deep in your soul.This my friend is not just comfort, not just love. This may be that ever-illusive place in your heart you can at last call Home.

And it was, for a time.

Once you leave that place, that feeling, you realize something, you are left with a bit bittersweet memory. You can chase it, mimic it, even scroll through every picture you took, but you can never recreate it. The excitement of starting over, the butterflies in your stomach, the way a brand-new city smells like possibility and hope. It is like the first time you experienced the tummy churning corkscrew followed by that huge loop on the roller coaster. It is exciting each time, and the G-forces are awesome, but you will never again feel the way you did just before the operator took your first ticket. The excitement, the rush, the fear. Those feelings and emotions are a one-time shot, a one-time deal.

Every city is like a new pair of shoes. You’ve got to try it on, walk around a bit, see if it pinches. Some cities make you feel ten feet tall. After time, others start to rub against your soul until you are limping through your day. No matter how trendy or tempting, if the fit isn’t right, it just isn’t right.

And so, the nomad moves on. Not out of regret, but out of wisdom. Out of hope that the next place might just be the one that finally feels like home.