Cothran

If I lived anywhere else, that memory would fade. But here I can still feel it. I can still see a fragile boy who used to dance salsa with the girl on heady Saturday nights at the Elbo Room trying desperately to light a candle against the cold evening wind every time I drive past the intersection of 24th and Valencia streets.

But it wasn't all endings. It was a hell of a lot of fun, too.

I got to beat up on people who deserved it. I learned that standing up to bullies is the highest and most gratifying act a journalist can aspire to perform.

I learned other things along the way, too.

Most of all, I learned how to think clearly. That wasn't something I acquired in five years of college. I got every last bit of it in this newsroom, struggling with issues I could barely fathom until, brick by brick, I had built a knowledge of San Francisco too deep to abandon. Until the city and its maddening foibles had become intertwined in my sense of who I am.

Discovering San Francisco, wrestling with it, growing protective of it, and placing its faults and glories into perspective was a process that defined me.

Why would I leave San Francisco?

At my wedding in May, a dear friend who moved back East years ago made a toast wherein he alleged this city wouldn't let me go. I loved that comment. It implied that the city had noticed me, that it had taken me in, that it had assessed me, and judged me worthy of its affections.

But my friend only had it half right.

Fact is, we won't let each other go.