I’ve written before on this blog about my childhood desire to move back to Southern California and how that desire drastically diminished with, I would say, a dash of maturity and a whole lot of
I return to that theme today.
Eleven days ago, as Kate and I were landing in
We were walking toward the baggage claim when I heard this out of Kate’s mouth.
“Let’s move here. I wanna live here.”
“No you don’t.” I said.
“Yes, I do.”
I didn’t feel like saying, “No, you don’t” again. I knew after she got a good taste of
“Okay.” She said with a perky twist to it that just slightly undermined the difficulty of being able to purchase/afford such a house.
Less than 48 hours later, after Kate saw the expanse that Southern California suburbia is, after driving great distances on six-lane roads over sweeping hills to just go to the super market, after hearing about traffic on the five (I-5), after learning more about the cost of living in Southern California, after observing the lifestyle of Californians that pushes the limits of sustainability, after realizing all those things make living by the Pacific and not having to experience a winter not look so good anymore, she said, “I don’t want to live here.”
I told her. “I know.”