Zed asked:
If you could live anywhere else in the world, which country would it be?
At the risk of coming across as a depressingly myopic Little Englander, my immediate answer is: nowhere. Horizon-broadening be damned; for all its glaring faults and myriad irritations, I like it here.
However, given the somewhat improbable choice between transportation or death (or serious maiming at the very least), I suppose I would have to plump for San Francisco.
I am, of course, well aware that San Francisco isn’t actually a separate country in its own right (much as many of its citizens might like it to be – although, come to think of it, that must be part of its appeal), but it is the one and only place which I have visited, and thought: yes, I could quite cheerfully unpack my bags here, and never leave.
What a blessed relief it is that Zed omitted to append the increasingly ubiquitous “…and why?” to her question. For I’m not sure that I can meaningfully translate SF’s appeal into words. There was just something in the air over there. Particularly one sunny afternoon on Russian Hill…
troubled diva 