Once upon a long con to move in with my slow and steady now former beau, I moved into his room in a house with 5 other young men in the Outer Sunset.

The boys had named the house “The Citadel of Excitement,” often simply referred to as The Citadel. I surreptitiously called it The Surf Hostel, primarily when having margaritas in the suburbs with my Mom’s friends, where I knew the joke would land. The Citadel was a 2 floor, pale salmon single family sunset home with 5 bedrooms and 2 baths. The bathroom on the upper floor, which incidentally was the one I used, definitely took the most abuse.

Even though our bathroom was often in mortal peril, I was pleasantly surprised at how lovely it was to live in this slightly bohemia, surfer Neverland with the not-quite-lost boys. There was a flourishing money tree, a dishwasher, freshly ground coffee, cool girlfriends that would drink Sancerre with me, and bi-monthly Brazilian housecleaners. I’d get home and say hello then go straight to our room, never come out, and not have to explain it. If anything, these boys made me want to move out sooner and start my 1:1 life with my boyfriend. This is cake. Living with men is so chill.

After we did eventually move to our own place, we invited everyone over for drinks. One of the guys looked around, impressed, slightly nonplussed. “Very clean,” he said as my new live in boyfriend rounded the corner, chomping a hulk handful of Have’A Corn Chips.

“Right?” BF said, through a maize mouthful. His hand went back in and grabbed another 5 or so chips. I watched as he smashed them into his mouth; the triangles splintering into infinity. Inevitably, some of the splinters didn’t make it down the gullet and rained down around us like salty confetti.

“Come see the backyard,” BF motioned, tromping down our stairs, wiping his hand on his jeans.

My former roommate, a man I would brazenly ask to marry BF and I when I was on mushrooms, raised his eyebrows at me ever so slightly, taking in the chip crumb massacre.

He started after BF, making a whistle-like firework sound, miming the motions of a flower girl at a wedding or someone picking up a bunch of trash and throwing it in the air. I knew exactly what he meant.

A psychotic, nervous giggle escaped me as I realized that living with men was never chill. Living with those particular men was one of the luckiest circumstances of my life.

All this time, the Citadel boys had wiped down counters, returned glassware to the cabinets, swept the floors, and watered the Money Tree. They’d somehow concealed the The Trail of BF: any manner of salsa slashings, avocado casings, greek yogurt spoons, tin cups, sad bunny sneakers (Allbirds worn paper thin with holes), sad bunny sweatpants (old SDSU pants with pocket holes and just a permanent light crust), damp bath towels, iPhone chargers ordered in bulk from Amazon, and endless loose papers with doodles of his initials or the logo for a clothing company if he ever started one.

I was lucky enough to get caught in their orbit, and they just let me in and let me be.

We were only supposed to be there for 4 months or so. That turned into 5. Which turned into 8. Which doesn’t really seem long looking back. But it felt like so much happened.

The Citadel had sort of a family soul bond with another crew of five that lived down the street. Or in the sewers. Or in the trees? In the trash maybe. They were a gang of raccoons, and their leader was a fearless yet handsome monster called Won Ton. Won Ton and his feral band ran that hood, and we all knew it.

They’d jump on the roof, screeching and war whooping like raiding Comanches. If they found you alone at night in the backyard, say smoking a cigarette, they’d charge at you by running the top length of our fence. We used to throw empty beer cans at them to chase them out of the yard and you’d swear you could hear them laughing as they lumbered into the night.

One pink and orange dusk, one of the guys was outside in our front driveway when he spotted Won Ton and crew ambling up a container wall across the street, prepping for nightfall and hijinks. He said he caught Won Ton’s gaze, and the two locked eyes for the briefest moment. Maybe Won Ton even raised up on his legs in recognition. You have 5 and we are five. We are you. You is us. We are one.

From that moment Won Ton and his trash pandas were a a spirit totem for the boys. I don’t know if there were any girl raccoons at all, but I didn’t feel left out. We even have shirts with Won Ton and the gang drawn on thanks to one of our talented guys.

Won Ton fervor aside, I think the moments I will most treasure from my time were the infamous house parties. Citadel parties were special, a true love letter to the Outer Sunset, Ocean Beach, and each other.

Somehow San Francisco managed to bless the day of the event with sun; it was miraculous and uncanny. The foundation of the party was always fresh coconuts, bought in bulk. Coco Kyle would machete them live and hand it off to you. You’d then take a giant gulp and were rewarded with a solid rum floater and tropical drink umbrella.

I would make giant, 20 avocado bowls of guacamole and fuss over it the whole party, making sure there were enough pits and acid to keep it from going even slightly brown. Kegs of lavender kombucha, California Kolsh, and basically Gus’s Market’s entire selection of local craft beer abounded generously, thrown into one of three ice buckets.

People started to roll in, old school OB surfers in denim jackets and Danner boots or friends of friends who gamely observed the Aloha attire suggestion. Girls with sun streaked blonde hair in vintage 501s and crop tops and stacked their woven raffia tote bags from Mexico at the bottom of the stairwell. Someone rolled a joint, someone passed a joint. I, for some reason, bought clove cigarettes and handed them out like party favors.

A friend’s surf rock band set up shop and played a Sunset set then transitioned to a funky DJ set once night fell. BF and my best friend Soleil has a dance off, which she dominated to my immense loving satisfaction, after whipping out her gymnastic skills.

Her husband also offered up a moment I will never forget. He looked around at one point in the late afternoon and reflected, “This is the most California thing I have ever witnessed.”

It was pretty fucking Californian. Even in the wake of the “costal elites” being renounced by, oh just the rest of the nation, I’m pretty proud we created something that could have been parodied by SNL. It means we did a cool thing. It was also simply a group of relatively normal, ambitious and kind roommates coming together, sharing parts of themselves, and then the community amplifying our heartfelt efforts to infinity.

It taught me the power of gatherings, how to give of yourself and expect nothing, and that if you did so with the right intention, you’d be rewarded tenfold.

I also learned one of my most important lessons: what it means to feel like you belong to something bigger than yourself, but also requires your participation.

For me, that community, that vibe, that energy, those people–it’s the Revolution. Even if was technically just a super rad Citadel party in the Outer Sunset.