The snobbish sentiment of Lucille Bluth, above, is a pretty good synopsis of the type of response I get when I tell people in the Bay Area that I am moving to Utah in June.
My last post was my first real public announcement about the big move, and I was hoping to ward off the “Ew, Utah?” reaction with some breathtaking photos of the incredible scenery there, not to mention my own enthusiasm about the prospect. But while the majority of the comments on my Facebook teaser were positive, there were, of course, a few of “Ew, Utah”-ers.
Over the last few months that I’ve slowly been spreading the word about how excited I am to be moving to a new state, I’ve gotten used to this. A year ago, I too would have wrinkled my nose in disgust at the idea of moving to Utah. Or any state not on the coast. Specifically, the West Coast. The half-assed Buddhist in me has found it really interesting; it has made me think critically about my own attitude toward states other than our darling California.
I’ve at least driven through every state in the lower 48 except for North Dakota. I’ve lived in five states and driven cross-country seven times—five of them with an unhappy cat in the car. I’ve camped across 90, down 1, back across 80. I’ve bee-lined across 70, 40 and 10 in a variety of VWs. I once drove to Seattle via New Orleans. During that trip, I almost stayed in Santa Fe when my car broke down and someone offered me a waitressing job and a room in a house. That would have made it six states I’ve lived in, but I had the good sense to keep heading west.
Not that time, but three other times, I ended up in California.
I’ve now lived in California for the majority of my adult life. I kept ending up here, and eventually I just stayed. My friend Michelle refers to this as the Marin Vortex, where days turn into months turn into years, and you’re like, whoa, I still live here? I don’t remember when I decided to do that.
In many ways, it’s easy to be here. California is a beautiful place full of creative, progressively minded people. Rarely do you meet someone in the Bay Area who is actually from the Bay Area. Most often, you meet people who grew up, like me, somewhere snowy or muggy (or both), and were drawn by the easy weather here and the promise of never again shoveling another driveway. People come to San Francisco because they didn’t fit in wherever they were from. They were too artsy, too liberal, too gay, too hippie, too facial hair-ish, too smart, too something. Everyone here is interesting. Everyone here is exceptional. Everyone is cool.
Some people, though, are assholes. Last week, a bicyclist in my town beat a motorist to the point of near-death over a road rage incident. The perp turned out to be a highly successful tech CEO.
This is the sort of thing I won’t miss about California. What I will miss, beyond the good stuff I’ve already mentioned, is my friends. I have a group of friends that is going to be impossible to replicate in Utah or most anywhere else. Most of them are, like me, exiles from the places they grew up—places like Massachusetts, Florida, Texas, Colorado, New York, and even Taiwan. Most of them feel the same way I do about the Bay Area—like it’s not quite home, but it sure is beautiful for now. Eventually, many of them will probably migrate onward.
I know that we will all look back to our time together in California and think, those really were the salad days, now, weren’t they.
“…My salad days, / When I was green in judgment, cold in blood…”
— Cleopatra, according to Shakespeare
Ultimately, though, home is where the heart is. And for me, right now, the heart is in Utah. With this guy:
PS Want to hear something hilarious? I recently wrote a coffee table book about San Francisco. Check it out.
