Looking for Missy

I never thought I would do it, but I moved from Berkeley to LA.

Why did I do it?

I was at home in the Bay Area. I could go to the Mission or Bernal Heights or Noe Valley or the Richmond or El Cerrito and know I could knock on doors and there my friends would be. They would be kayak guides or playwrights or costume designers or mountain climbers, and a lot of them were computer geeks. I knew exactly where to buy the best Thai chili, or truck tacos, or Vital Vittles 12-grain bread baked a block down from a prostitute-riddled area of San Pablo Avenue, just near Oakland. I developed gaydar. I drank Red Hook. I was on Craig's List. I went to Anon Salon and then the Playa. The Mexican Bus picked up a group of my friends one night at the Kilowatt, and we drank tequila, danced in the aisles, and visited all the salsa bars.

I lost my cockatiel Missy in Bernal Heights. She had flown outside before, and would always swoop back and land on my shoulder, but one day I think she just got scared, or was bored, or didn't love us enough, and kept flying.

For years, I kept looking for Missy when I drove down Bernal Hill.