Getting tarot cards read in the middle of a BDSM fair is surprisingly terrifying.
$20 (they take Venmo) in exchange for a 10 minute reading surrounded by butt plugs and the ethics of after-care.
It was like any other day in San Francisco, between the Ghirardelli Chocolate, the tech bros, and the organic-free-range-single-origin granola.
The entire time the cards were shuffled, I was terrified: I was leaving the big city and moving to the suburbs.
I was moving to Phoenix.
Across from me, a goth girl read the cards and said they meant, “This is good for you.”
I said, “Thanks, I hate it.”
As predicted, when I moved, I was a fish out of water. It was hot, dry, and flat, nothing like the Bay.
Within four days of arriving, when there was still a week left of sleeping on a leaky blowup mattress, Jose got the call that he’d been let go. The job which had been the whole reason we’d had to leave SF laid him off.
This was supposed to be good?
The thing about Phoenix is that people either love it or hate it.
Beautiful, crystal blue skies and gorgeous sunsets? 120 degree desert heat. Nature everywhere you look? Don’t go out there, scorpions. Or heat exposure, whichever kills you first.
Who needs color when there’s endless brown as far as the eye can see?
Trying to find the silver lining, I asked strangers what to do over the summer, and the response was a resounding, “You just don’t go outside.”
Wait- what?
And just like the cars that regularly burst into flames on the 202, so did I. My 9-5 burnout got out of hand within the first three months that it took an intervention from my best friends to chill me out.
I struggled to acclimate. People around me wanted to be there- some COULDN’T STOP talking about how much they loved it there.
So I sucked it up. I became a summertime hermit, hiding in any bit of shade I could find, conserving water. I got a library card. I picked up reading because it was cheap and the Phoenix Public Library qualified as a “Heat Relief Center.”
I read books, Jose applied to jobs, and our days went on and on, blending into a haze in the summer heat.
I couldn’t hide at home in the AC forever, though, and when the temperatures finally broke months later I decided to try and make an effort to get out of the house, to do my best to appreciate where I was, to explore.
There had to be a reason people loved Arizona, even if I was convinced it was just a bunch of cope.
By this point I’d read over 20 books and to treat myself, I found Changing Hands Bookstore and spent $30 on a copy of Intermezzo by Sally Rooney. Pricey, but a treat.
The store had a little yellow index card attached to the display, marking it as the book club pick of the month, next meeting in 3 weeks so I thought… why not? I’d never been to a book club- maybe this it would help me get out of the house and be around more than just my cats and unemployed husband.
Surprisingly, the monthly meetings were a lifeline as I struggled to survive in my loneliness. The Safekeep, Blood Test, The God of the Woods, Isola– I put faith in that book club, devouring stories I never would have picked up just to get a chance to be in a room with other humans.
The books made my life easier to swallow, which was even harder when everything went to shit during the 2024 Election. I’d never gotten so many political ads stuffed in my mailbox as I did that November.
Every month I did my best to find community worth showing up for, even if the attempt was just sitting in a room of 50 people, quietly alone in the back as everyone else discussed literary fiction over glasses of red wine.
The Phoenix weather began to warm in the Spring.
Jose began his rounds of interviews.
The club pick was Laila Lalami’s The Dream Hotel, centered on surveillance capitalism and its unintended consequences on regular folks.
In a room of strangers, people debated the book, the state of data collection, how digital foot prints are being used in the legal system, and the current environment of fear online. “The Dream Hotel” was disturbing and didn’t feel like dystopian fiction at all: people shared that they’d had real nightmares reading, because of tech’s role in our lives. People debated never wearing their Apple Watch again.
After an evening of debate, the moderator announced that she’d take one more speaker, scanning the room with her eyes for volunteers. I shocked myself the moment I raised my hand and impulsively took the mic. I didn’t actually know what I was actually going to say, opting to YOLO whatever was going to come out of my mouth.
Somehow, I spoke evenly from my gut,
“So. I actually work in tech.”
The room fell silent.
I explained where I was from, what I did for a living, and how the book made me feel. How it made me feel to hear their thoughts.
How the book didn’t feel far fetched when you read the news or saw the state of the world.
How “Big Tech” can be perceived in places like Arizona. How it’s different than how I think it’s perceived in San Francisco.
How sometimes dumb tech decisions are made by accident. How books like this contribute to the narrative.
The people around me raised their brows, spoke amongst themselves, genuinely thought through what I said. Some looked alarmed, some nodded in understanding.
I handed back the mic and the moderator thanked me for speaking up. For being vulnerable, and for adding a new perspective to the room. People clapped. An older woman wearing a yellow hat leaned over to whisper, “Thank you for telling us about your experience.”
My heart was filled with gratitude.
As the conversation concluded, I picked up my empty glass of wine and headed to the exit. A regular handed me a tiny slip of paper, “Come celebrate the 10 year anniversary of the book club next month! Date and time to be announced on the Facebook group!” Welcoming, asking me to stay, to come again, to be part of their next gathering.
Before my heart was filled with gratitude. But now it sank.
On the way to book club, Jose had just gotten the news of his new role. It was a role that would blow us out of Arizona, requiring a move back to California, to San Francisco.
That moment of connection and community I’d just found, that I knew was good for me, was over before it started.
The move from Phoenix to the Bay went quickly after we broke our lease.
Jose and I unpacked in our new apartment, overlooking a view of the San Francisco skyline: beautiful, cold, and humid with fog. I put away the shorts and tank tops I had bought in the desert and pulled out the cable knit sweaters that had been unworn for so long.
Bittersweet.
I’d finally given into what life could be in the desert, struggling to overcome the pain of loneliness and isolation. And here I was a year and a half later, back as if it had never happened, as if I’d never left.
It took time to find a local bookstore, featuring a tiny notice on their website about their new book club. Their second meeting advertised it at a little pizza joint with an old goat as a mascot.I was home again.
Slowly walking up the hilly streets, overlooking the foggy city with a book tucked under my arm, I was ready to reconnect with the reading community I’d began to discover.
@vintageontap After a year (and a half) in the desert, I’m back in San Francisco. It all happened so very quickly, I’m still pinching myself. As soon as I had finally acclimated (and in some ways, resigned myself) to Arizona, I’m back home. It’s almost as if I never left! What have I brought home? A gratitude and appreciation for the Bay Area, including its vibrant culture, its fog, its food scene and all the random things I appreciated about city living. But what else? The desire to sink my teeth and join in on the communities I feel the most myself in, including with the vintage scene, sewing community, and… the book-ish one, too! Living in the desert with nothing to do but read in cool AC-filled rooms will do that. Still, I’m happy to be home and finally settled back in in California! Want to learn more about the move? I wrote a blog post that you can read on my website. Photos and videos coming soon now that I’m not living out of boxes 😅
♬ original sound – VintageOnTap