San Francisco is all blues, all sea and sky.
As I remember it, Chicago was green. When it wasn't white, my hometown was the brightest, boldest, classic-crayon green. It was green ivy crawling along the edges of brick brownstones, it was green grass expanding across wide, flat fields, it was tall, green oak trees turning quiet streets into tunnels.
Most days, San Diego seemed yellow: a beaming, brilliant light that made my face squint into a smile. It was light sand and light sky and the lightest, clearest air. It was light buildings in a short skyline and light boats lining the horizon. It was a warm, yellow light that faded into the palest of pinks at sundown.
Oxford was gray, lots of gray. It was the gray of wet sidewalks and centuries-old cobblestone and castles that stretched high into the low, cloud-covered sky. It was the gray of long trench coats and dirty pub floors, the gray of dusty books and weathered pages and a sharpened pencil point.
And San Francisco is just so blue, so beautifully, blissfully blue. It's the blue of a limitless ocean and a broad, clear sky. It's layers of the sunniest blues, teal and turquoise and a glowing cerulean. It's the kind of blue that makes you wonder why the blues are called the blues, the kind of blue that makes you forget why you ever loved green and yellow and gray because the blue, it buoys you. It fills you up like a long, light, sigh of a breath that comes from knowing, yes, you're right where you're meant to be.