I’ve been thinking about leaving the United States for a number of years. It’s not quite the same thing to dream of Paris, or Morocco on a balmy summer evening with hopes of adventure and romance as it is to practically consider the idea if not here, then where?

It’s sad, but true, that I am deeply American. So the idea of political, social or cultural reunion with my people is out of the question. Further, I am a total shut in. I really love my house, my desk, and my little peninsula at the edge of the North American continent, and while I’ve traveled a lot, seen many places, I’ve always longed to return to San Francisco. It’s my emotional, spiritual, and physical home. Nothing feels quite the same, and nowhere really comes close. There are no runner up cities, no second choices for me as far as the United States and Canada are concerned.

I remember one lovely summer day, after swinging on a rope swing from the cliffs of an abandoned Burlington, Vermont rock quarry into the refreshing black water below, hanging out with friends, and sipping a perfect coffee on the brick promenade of the high street that I could live there. The idea of a house (at the time) costing a mere 75k, as opposed to the 225k back home (at the time.) Considering a life of music, friends, and rock quarries was very attractive. Then I learned all about Vermont winters. Deal breaker, and sadly, non negotiable. I have no desire to live anywhere there is snow, or temperature below 40 degrees (ever.)

I remember a spring day in New York City. A long walk through midtown to the Village, two macchiatos and a bowl of raspberries and cream at Caf?© Reggio. The fresh smell in the air, the weirdoes in Washington Square, the sound of the subway… I thought, I could live in New York. I love it here. Soon I would return and experience the summer in New York City. Blasting, oven-like heat, and humidity… No, I could never live anywhere it was 90% humidity, overcast, and 105 degrees when, by rights, it should be clear, dry, warm and sultry. Humidity kills me. Can’t sing, can’t think, can’t escape. No thank you.

Chicago is so hot and cold and the crowd is so rough and confusing to me that, like the better part of the mid west, I am immediately at home, but completely revolted at once. The south is so intoxicating, but the weather, and the hazards of the daily life of a free thinking, card carrying socialist who believes in freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom of choice, and the rights of all people are simply too grave, and too confrontational for my taste. Seattle? Canada? No, no. Portland? No way, everyone’s there or in LA, and I really wouldn’t want to rekindle the past. I haven’t got any real romantic vision of reliving my childhood as an expatriate a mere 4 to 9 hours away from home.

So I have been considering leaving the United States.

London is my second favorite city on the planet. What a huge, beautiful, lovable, sprawl of middle height buildings containing a deeply fetishistic culture. However, the price of living in the UK would demand quite an income. An income I don’t have, and don’t foresee. Sadly, the second favorite is out.

Barcelona is a lovely city. Deeply livable. I have a host of friends there, speak a little Spanish, and could easily make a living as a musician and designer anywhere. I could, but don’t really feel inspired to even go check it out… though a month with Finn would be a treat, like my last three week trip to the temple of Gaudi, I was homesick and more than ready to roll by the end of the visit.

Tokyo, Paris, Berlin… all wonderful cities full of amazing people, places, things, and friends. But as I consider it in detail, like all the other cities, I find that regardless of which I focus on it really just seems like a lateral move. Leaving one set of changeable circumstances for another, possibly more difficult than those left behind.

My thoughts turn, then, to land in Mexico. My favorite person alive just moved to a plot of land on the Pacific coast of Mexico, and will eventually build a home there. For a mere 35k he will build a home, and some beach huts, and live off the income from his land. I can see myself doing much the same thing. Costa Rica, the Caribbean, Belize, Mexico, any island in the Pacific, or almost any type of tropical destination with refuge from El Tourismo.

But then a sting of conscience stabs at me like a frozen razor through my heart. I think of imperialism, and how deeply I would dub it out if i could. The outposts of McDonald’s and Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, Bank of America, and other such military tanks which ravage the landscape of the world. In hopes of escape, I might just become a catalyst.

I think of my old neighborhood, south of market, in San Francisco. When I moved there in 1989, it was a bastion of the working class. The last families in SF who were still working warehouse jobs, steel mill production, construction and largely African American. The parks were unsafe, full of discarded syringes, and angry junkies and crack heads. The local market was a war zone, best to go before dark. The neighborhood was populated with people like me, warehouse and office space dwellers who needed a space to paint, write, and make noise where they wouldn’t bother anyone. We arrived, and the neighborhood got “better.” Better is a relative experience, I use it in quotes to show the tongue in my cheek, but we populated the parks, and chased away the crack heads. We filled up the store, and changed the landscape. If felt like we were blending in, as if we could all live and work together in a part of the city which was otherwise unused, and still very inexpensive.

Next came the companies. A string of start up companies, mostly internet based, began to make use of the inexpensive office space. Then came the places to eat lunch. The park filled up with people, day and night, like a campus quad at lunch time. Then came the parking meters. What was once a free for all, was now a miserable situation. Ticket after ticket, car towed away… no available parking permit. Finally, I got a parking permit and my car was stolen. Just a little revenge from the old school, getting back at the invaders from Boston. Fair enough, and not directed at me. I guess that’s what I get for spending my life’s savings on a car. Silly of me. Finally the lofts arrived. Buildings were getting torn down left and right, single room, very expensive lofts were built in their place. Now the neighborhood was littered with BMW’s and Land Rovers. Nothing left but crack heads in doorways, junkies under the freeway, and people passing so quickly they presumed that I was one of them, those creepy neighborhood people.

I accept responsibility for the change that happened in my neighborhood. At the time I liked to see myself as a native, and the onslaught of development making life harder and harder something which arrived, unprovoked, aimed at removing me and my fellow artists and blue collar workers. But the truth is more likely to be that I was the scout for the hoards which followed.

I see this as a microcosm of what local imperialism does, and how it operates within any given community. So if I move to a kay off the coast of Belize, build myself a house, a studio, and begin to spend my days in compost, vegetables, and sustainable resources, I am not a pioneer of refusal. I am not a visionary expatriate. I am the flag pole of the United States. Surely what will follow me in my quest for peace in the world, in my heart, and communion with human beings in a way which can evolve beyond the confines of a checkout counter, and a credit card statement, is a a resort development, Pizza Hut, and all that they bring with them. If the infantry break through the lines, it is only a matter of time before the tanks arrive.

With nowhere to run, and lacking the conscience to be the vanguard of corporate imperialism, what are my alternatives? Do I stay and fight? Move to Paris and write? Or just keep doing what I’m doing? One way or another, I want off of this hamster wheel.