Postscript
Thinking about the sum of reasons which accumulated to determine that Lewis and I landed in California, not Washington, when we repatriated from Cambridge. When your life is in the moment, it always seems as though there is a single, clear path by which order proceeds. Only in retrospect do I realize how many degrees of freedom were available to me, all unseen. I’m not displeased to have become a permanent Californian, but I’m surprised that this appears to be the case. When you get right down to it, the reasons we’re still here are quite mundane.
- We were getting married in Davis, a few months after returning from Cambridge, partially because my parents had moved away from Seattle and it seemed harder to get stuff done there than somewhere we had a representative living. It was also cheaper, and we had (collectively) more California friends and relatives than Washington ones
- Also because my parents left Seattle, there was no real support structure there when we arrived. No place to stay while we got on our feet.
- When we started looking for jobs, looking in the Bay Area was easier than Seattle since you can drive there for interviewing purposes, and Lewis was familiar with the area since he grew up in Oakland
- All our stuff was in Davis, since we had driven the U-Haul here after graduation, in part to drop off Lewis’ (dad’s) car back where it belonged, and in part because it was closer and the Lawyers had space for our stuff
I suppose what it all really comes down to is that mom and dad left Seattle, and without them there to lean on while we found our way in the world, we didn’t have anything promising there. I turned in my Washington passport for a Californian one for the same reason so many other people are here – the lure of opportunity that seems wanting in your home.
California is a lovely place. It seems trite to even bother assessing a place of so much plenty on these terms, but the truth of it is, California is a lovely place. A nice place to live, to work, to experience, to find yourself. It’s so open, so accessible. I don’t know if moving to most livable places is like my emigration here, but it’s nearly flawless. We have our jokes, the things you have to attenuate to so the locals are appeased. The hills are golden, not brown. We have weather, it’s just not like your weather. You can never have too much rain, it’s good for the crops. Never, ever call it San Fran – and let us never again speak of Frisco. Here in NorCal there’s only one City, even if you live in or near other metropolitan areas. (It took me a while to get over that one, though I realize that all us Seattle metro kids always called Seattle “Downtown”, even us South Enders who were so much closer to Tacoma’s bleak downtown.)
In Davis, if not everywhere here, there’s an abounding optimism about life. The city puts so much stock in livability, in a city for everyone to enjoy. The attention paid to bike transit never fails to astound me and adds immeasurable quality to every day life. I love that the bike path is full of runners and dog walkers and stroller ladies and kids biking to school every morning. I love that everyone I pass says hello, and that even the disaffected youth aren’t getting into any more trouble than smoking pot in the arboretum. I love that even when it’s really, really hot, the weather is dry and bearable. I love that we get torrential rain throughout winter and spring; it’s good soup weather, and ones life should always be amenable to soup. I can’t even express how much I love the adjacency to produce we have – I don’t know if I could live anywhere that didn’t have fresh peaches and pineapple guava and figs all summer, and squash and kale and carrots all winter. And while I’m on the topic, let me mention what may be my favorite place in all of Davis: I love the Co-op. The Co-op embodies all of my favorite things about Davis and Northern California, from its social protests of Israeli goods to its cooking classes for kids, to its deep community commitment and its quirky but lovable staff.
Despite this all, I can’t help but feeling there’s a piece of me wandering the trails up north. It’s the quiet, introspective, spiritual, hermetic me. The shy version of myself that is checked out and disengaged and ready to process input without bias. Maybe that’s just the feeling of my own naiveté having been left behind at a specific point in time. I can’t help but feel like I went out for milk and never came home again, leaving all my baggage and memories and sentimental items in some abandoned apartment. And this Californian me sometimes just yearns to be whole again, and to make use of all those lessons about life I had learned. (It’s amazing when you realize all the things you thought were codified parts of your parents’ life strategy were just ways of passing time and pacifying bored kids).
We’re vising for a few weeks this summer, and I think we’re going to camp on the peninsula on our way up. I’m half afraid I’m going to go native. I’m going to pitch that tent in the Hoh and you’ll never see me again, even with the lure of your organic fruits and sunshine. Well, except my dog will be in Davis, and the thought of his sad little brow waiting for us to come un-abandon him…. I guess I should add that to the reasons I’m still in California.
5. My dog is still here.