I never really connected with San Francisco. I lived there for almost two years, and nothing about it resonates in my heart the way thoughts of New York and New Orleans do. I feel no longing to go back there, no desperate desire for some favorite thing or place that can’t be seen or had anywhere else. Mostly I feel a sort of remote fondness for it, my memories of it predominantly consist of flashes of beautiful scenery, recollections of really good food, and cheap wine.

It should’ve been a city I loved though. On paper, it was perfect for me. City Lights Bookstore, beatniks and counterculture, Mark Twain, acid tests, Hell’s Angels, innovative thinking. The weather mostly stayed in the sixties and every view was spectacular. It was a city of artists, writers, musicians, and pirates. The age...

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