Yes. I know I live here. I often tell people I'm a hopeless tourist in my own town, and it's true.
Last weekend I bought a used copy of Travelers' Tales - San Francisco at the big Friends' of the Library book sale in Ft. Mason. Instead of reading class assignments I'm indulging my love of The City (don't call it Frisco! - but I jest; I don't actually mind when yahoos stab me with that word) while a cold virus works its unforgiving way through my upper respiratory tract.
Reading about North Beach I'm remembering my days at the art school on Chestnut, sitting out on the balcony, listening to the soft, distant cable car bells and fog horns, not painting. Another time I'm sitting on the tracks on the still hard-working waterfront, drawing with pen and ink. . . .thought I was oh so bohemian in my black tights and Capezio shoes.
I have so many sweet memories in this town, right up to this week (I'd say today, but I haven't left the house since Tuesday). It's always interesting. Never boring. And maybe homesick is the wrong word, but a frequently felt sudden fear that it could be taken away (think The Big One) keeps me always aware of where I am in my city, awake to its beauties. Warts and all.