Cardiff, Calif.
In addition to replenishing my vitamin D after a dark New England winter, I came to California this time to complete some sort of circle of life. My wife’s grandparents are near San Diego, and we thought it a wise idea for our boys, ages 6 and 4, to see their great-grandparents — combined age greater than 189 — sooner rather than later.
The Golden State has coaxed this Upper Valley native to her shores for a plethora of reasons, including good old-fashioned Grateful Dead music; weddings; work; and a year in San Francisco after college, when I came primarily because a friend had invited me and I had no other plans.
The longest state has always fascinated me, but I never felt the emotional riptide that pulls so many dreamers, entrepreneurs and idealists out here. It always feels like an edge is missing on the West Coast, all the tough talk and action diluted by sunshine and surf. On the East Coast, including the beloved communities of the Upper Valley, the relentlessness of the competitive spirit is palpable, like the feeling in your mouth after too much raw red onion. Here, the glinty-eyed-West-Coast-it’s-all-good-bro store clerk asks me, “Are you aware that your shoes are untied?”; the barista asks my wife, after taking her order, “Hey, how’s your day going so far?”; and, when I almost nudged a guy with my front bumper when he was crossing on a “Walk” signal, he says, “Hey, man, pedestrians have the right-of-way.” When I lived in Boston, there wasn’t much small talk between strangers, and when a car almost hit you, profanity was sure to fly.
Like lots of East Coasters, I have many friends and family who heard the siren song of the Left Coast. They have sold season tickets for professional sports teams; applied their licensed social work skills in their new communities; swung hammers; driven motorcycles across the Bay Bridge; made gazillions at companies whose products and services I never use; worked for a celebrity convicted felon; taken the administrative helm at a private school; sold fly fishing gear; and won an Oscar. Many of them dabbled in several of the above; some of them stayed and some of them came back to their East Coast roots. All of them, myself included, are grateful for the experiences here. Simply put, when you are from the East Coast and you spend significant time in California, you gain an appreciation for the vastness of America, for the different traditions, incredible distances, and rich diversity that makes us us.
Plus, let’s face it: Life can be spectacular here. Sometimes, it feels like you can reach out and touch the serenity of the surfer dude. Can you argue an abundance of avocados, agave and artisanal ales? Outdoor, healthy recreation is not luxury; it is part of your day. We’ve been going to a place called, simply, The Taco Stand. It shames your efforts at Taco Tuesday. An Uber driver told my wife that people get grumpy here if the temperature is under 50 or over 79, meaning their annual Range of Acceptable Fahrenheit Temperatures (RAFT) is 29 degrees.
Despite all that makes this place bucket-list worthy, I am steadfastly East Coast. I like a RAFT of 120 degrees, four times what the average San Diegan could handle. I like distinct seasons, people who say “Lookit that friggin’ moron with his shoes untied,” and strawberries that come only a few weeks a year, their sweet red flesh dominating kitchens across a region that is frequently starved for sunshine.
From an Upper Valley standpoint, I prefer Northern New England to west coastal living because I love living in a place where traffic and parking are easy. The guest log in our house near Encinitas, about 25 miles north of San Diego, included this from a previous guest: “We had a great weekend away from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles.”
As a Vermonter, I guffawed. Four-tenths of a mile from the house is I-5, which features 12 lanes of traffic. It took us 45 minutes to go 11 miles on Monday afternoon. There are stoplights on the entrance ramps, unimaginable at the Wilder on-ramp of I-91. To my eye, Hustle and Bustle are carrying on a torrid love affair out the back door.
I will always love visiting the world’s sixth largest economy, and exploring the many marvels of the land that simultaneously gives us Schwarzenegger, every flavor of natural disaster and Google. After this visit, whenever I think of California, I will hear what my paternal grandfather-in-law said about his great grandsons. When my wife asked how he was doing, he listed the common fatigue and ailments of any 98-year-old man. He paused, smiled, and said, “But boy, it is great to see those boys. They are a tonic.”
Some realities are universal, man, no matter which coast we call home.
Mark Lilienthal lives in Norwich. He can be reached at mlilient@gmail.com.