In the guest room of my apartment, above my desk — where I stare when I can’t think of anything to write — there’s a corkboard cluttered with thank-you notes from people who’ve stayed here.
Some are from childhood friends. Some are from coworkers. Some are from friends of friends, people I’ve never met, who used my place as a surf clubhouse while I was out of town.
When I moved to San Francisco, my only two housing requirements were that it be near the beach and have a guest room. After more than a decade of semi-nomadic movement, and reaping the hospitality of childhood friends, coworkers and friends of friends around the world, I wanted to return the favor. And while I don’t have a stove or central heating, I’m four blocks from the sand and have an extra room.
I haven’t had guests in seven months. No childhood friends, coworkers or friends of friends. It sucks. I miss them. Even those I’ve yet to meet. I know this is a first world problem, but I don’t care. I’m ready for this pandemic to end. I’m ready for life to return to normal. The guest bed is made. I’m ready for some new notes on the corkboard.