I feel like something really wants me in San Francisco. I’ve always wanted to go, but have never been. This year I’ve been thinking about going to the Night of Writing Dangerously. It sounds incredibly fun, and since it’s on a Sunday, I’d have the rest of the weekend to explore the city. On my own, because I deserve a vacation without the guys. I DESERVE IT, y’all.
And then when I joined the FoodBuzz publisher program I found out that they are having a food blogger festival in San Francisco. And it would be free for me to attend. I love food. I love taking photos of food and learning about food. And it’s also in November.
But they aren’t the same weekend. In a perfect world they would be. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday would be spent trying dozens of samples from restaurants I’d probably never get to otherwise try, rubbing elbows with other food bloggers. Then I’d run over to the Mercantile Building to party and write with amazing, wonderful, crazy novelists.
But they are different weekends, and I don’t live in San Francisco. And I’m not going to come up with a long-lost dead relative to help me with the cost of traveling there (and hotel) twice in one month. True, I have credit cards, but it would be ridiculously selfish of me to use them for this. We’re so close to being completely rid of them, it would be a big step down the slippery slope.
I’ve been so lost the past couple of years, trying to decide what it was I was doing with my life. San Francisco just feels like the kind of place I’m supposed to be.