The Decision

After raising two children and two poodles and completing our careers in the East, my husband and I followed the sun -- and our son -- to the West. We had been visiting Bob in San Francisco for more than fifteen years. For my husband, Phil, it was love at first sight of the city. "I'd sell belt buckles on street corners if I could live here," he often said. But being creative director at a Manhattan advertising agency paid a bit better, so he put his dream on hold.

Living in San Francisco was never in my plans for the future. My feet were firmly planted in New York, where I was nurtured by a large family and friends of many years who were as close as family.

So, what was the impetus that convinced me to leave a comfortable, safe environment that was forty years in the making and start over in a city a continent away where we knew just the four people in Bob's family? Initially, it was the weather. We had been through a couple of winters of relentless snow, blizzards, and single-digit temperatures. After a brief respite during spring, which is lovely in NY, but passes through so quickly that if you sleep late, you'll miss it, we were enveloped in long, oppressive summers, with the heat and humidity becoming less tolerable as we aged.

The jewel in the crown of NY weather is fall, with its kind, feel-good temperatures and a gentle breeze at your back. The breathtaking beauty of its early days, with foliage that turns from green to gold, to pink-tinged orange and deep scarlet, is followed by heavier winds that send crisp, curling leaves raining down to blanket the lawn and crackle underfoot. These sights and sounds were so dear to me, I often put off the raking until the last minute before the first snowfall. I will miss forever the wonder of fall in New York.

I digress. But I don't want to leave the impression that New York weather has no redeeming factors.

Back to the reason for our move to CA. As I said, the decision was made at the end of yet another year when we were snowed-in most of the winter, and homebound most of the summer, leaving our air-conditioned house only to make bread and milk runs. It was in this vulnerable state that I accepted Bob's offer of a week in an apartment in the heart of downtown San Francisco. I was born and raised in a city, followed by many years in a sleepy suburb, where we raised our children. I liked the idea of trying city life again, if only for a week. This would be a trial run. We all understood that.

Bob found us a condo a block away from a Catholic church, within easy reach of public transportation and, most clever of him -- within walking distance of the French Quarter. In short order, we found our favorite bistro, the boulangerie with the flakiest breakfast croissants, the market with rotisserie chickens whose aroma we couldn't resist, and the sidewalk cafe where the price of a cup of coffee bought us table rights for as long as we wanted. I closed my eyes and I was in Paris. And the decision was made. Bob knows my weaknesses, and he doesn't play fair.