I woke up early this morning (Aug. 15th), determined to set my eyes on the San Francisco Bay. To come to the City and not see it would just feel wrong to me. My trip is very condensed. I’m here for just 24 hours. I sit on a park bench I’ve sat on many times before, watching the ferries come and go as they shuttle commuters to and from the City. As I gaze out on the waters that roll beneath the grey, foggy sky I think about why I miss San Francisco. Certainly I have deep nostalgic longings for my old life here - a time when everything seemed right. But that’s the funny thing about nostalgia. Nostalgia clouds your judgement of that past and forces you to remember the good. I went through some very difficult times early during my tenure in San Francisco. On the very park bench I sit in now, I had many a phone conversation with my parents where I felt like I was at the end of my rope. At certain points I was so close to giving up that if my mom or dad would have uttered, “Time to come home, Adam,” I would have gladly tucked my tail between my legs and moped back East down I-80 toward Kansas City. It would have been so easy to have my parents nurse the “wounds” that my own decisions caused. I so easily could have been a statistic - a Midwest boy, chewed up and spit out by the Big City in just a few short months.