East Coast: 2, West Coast: 0
I've been living in LA for almost a year now, and I'm not in love. Perhaps it's because instead of channeling my homesickness for the East Coast into constructive activities desgined to help me feel at home in the West, I compare every aspect of my life here to my old life there.
Take for instance, driving. I hate it. I didn't do it regularly before I moved here. I've never even owned a car. Now I spend hour upon hour sitting in traffic. I think people out here think this is normal. It's like an invisible addition to everyone's list of things to do:
1. Go home
2. Get ready
2-Invisible. Fight traffic
3. Meet friends
or worse:
1. Get up
1-Invisible. Fight traffic
2. Go to work
This is no way to live. Instead of accepting these lost hours as part of life in SoCal, I spend my time thinking about how I used to walk to work back in DC. How traffic used to be for the poor slobs who lived in Maryland or Virginia, not me. I was special. I was an urban dweller.
So when I sat in traffic at 6:30am yesterday, trying to get to the airport for an 8:30am flight, all I could think about was how my life used to be so much easier when I was back East. It didn't help that I was travelling for a less than pleasant occasion. My uncle was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, and though he was given four to six months last week, my mother told me he wouldn't make it through the week. I rushed home in the middle of producing a new play and starting a new job to say goodbye. But there was no rush on the I-10. Just a slow, tedious crawl leaving me with nothing to do but sit in my car and contemplate life. Or the lack of it.
During my two-hour commute to the airport I couldn't help but think of my 20 minute taxi ride to National Airport in Arlington, VA, or my 40 minute train ride to BWI Airport, or my 50 minute bus ride to Dulles Airport in Godknowswhere, VA.
I actually thought longingly of a 50 minute bus ride to Godknowswhere.
Of course, I missed my flight. They put me on another flight two hours later, which just left me more time to sit angrily at the airport and think.
LA traffic sucks.
East Coast: 1, West Coast: 0
When my aunt died 5 years ago, my brother, who has lived in San Francisco for 6 years, told me that emergencies make you realize just how far California is from home. While I now appreciate growing up in the Mayberry-inspired suburbs of Columbus, Ohio, I didn't really have a great need to go back, other than for the yearly family reunion and/or Thanksgiving, Christmas, or the occasional unpleasant emergency. Living on the East Coast since college, I've always had the ability to fly home to Columbus quickly and without much effort. It didn't cost much, it took no time, and if I was ever bored (which I was, often) I could go back early on any number of flights. It was this convenience I previously took for granted. And it was this convenience I thought about for the entirety of my four hour flight.
Never before was time of as much essence as it was yesterday. In the two previous family emergencies the family member was already deceased. One was my 97-year-old Great-grandmother who, while no spring chicken, was in fact a pretty hardy lady who was old when I was born, so the whole thing was still a shock. Still no rush, I came the next day; the funeral was two days later, then I was back in DC.
My aunt died unexpectedly. It was miserable. I came the next day. My brother showed up two days later, after much maneuvering. We attended the funeral, hung out with the family, then I went home.
But this time, he wasn't dead yet. I was rushing home to say goodbye. I needed to get there. But I couldn't make it go any faster. I had no control of traffic. I had no control of the plane. I couldn't make the country any smaller, the miles any less. All I could do was sit there for hours, and hope I made it in time.
I got off the plane after four hours, with a layover and one hour of flying to go and I checked my messages. There were two, one from my mom.
"Anika, it's your mom. (Sigh) Call me when you get this."
And right then I knew. I called but I didn't need to. He died a half hour before I got off the plane.
I didn't make it.
I still had two more hours until I reached Columbus. I had two more hours to sit and think about the funeral I was about to attend; about my mother being the only sibling left; and my grandparents dealing with the death of yet, another child.
But surprisingly, all I could think was this:
East Coast: 2, West Coast: 0
I've been living in LA for almost a year now, and I'm not in love. Perhaps it's because instead of channeling my homesickness for the East Coast into constructive activities desgined to help me feel at home in the West, I compare every aspect of my life here to my old life there.
Take for instance, driving. I hate it. I didn't do it regularly before I moved here. I've never even owned a car. Now I spend hour upon hour sitting in traffic. I think people out here think this is normal. It's like an invisible addition to everyone's list of things to do:
1. Go home
2. Get ready
2-Invisible. Fight traffic
3. Meet friends
or worse:
1. Get up
1-Invisible. Fight traffic
2. Go to work
This is no way to live. Instead of accepting these lost hours as part of life in SoCal, I spend my time thinking about how I used to walk to work back in DC. How traffic used to be for the poor slobs who lived in Maryland or Virginia, not me. I was special. I was an urban dweller.
So when I sat in traffic at 6:30am yesterday, trying to get to the airport for an 8:30am flight, all I could think about was how my life used to be so much easier when I was back East. It didn't help that I was travelling for a less than pleasant occasion. My uncle was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, and though he was given four to six months last week, my mother told me he wouldn't make it through the week. I rushed home in the middle of producing a new play and starting a new job to say goodbye. But there was no rush on the I-10. Just a slow, tedious crawl leaving me with nothing to do but sit in my car and contemplate life. Or the lack of it.
During my two-hour commute to the airport I couldn't help but think of my 20 minute taxi ride to National Airport in Arlington, VA, or my 40 minute train ride to BWI Airport, or my 50 minute bus ride to Dulles Airport in Godknowswhere, VA.
I actually thought longingly of a 50 minute bus ride to Godknowswhere.
Of course, I missed my flight. They put me on another flight two hours later, which just left me more time to sit angrily at the airport and think.
LA traffic sucks.
East Coast: 1, West Coast: 0
When my aunt died 5 years ago, my brother, who has lived in San Francisco for 6 years, told me that emergencies make you realize just how far California is from home. While I now appreciate growing up in the Mayberry-inspired suburbs of Columbus, Ohio, I didn't really have a great need to go back, other than for the yearly family reunion and/or Thanksgiving, Christmas, or the occasional unpleasant emergency. Living on the East Coast since college, I've always had the ability to fly home to Columbus quickly and without much effort. It didn't cost much, it took no time, and if I was ever bored (which I was, often) I could go back early on any number of flights. It was this convenience I previously took for granted. And it was this convenience I thought about for the entirety of my four hour flight.
Never before was time of as much essence as it was yesterday. In the two previous family emergencies the family member was already deceased. One was my 97-year-old Great-grandmother who, while no spring chicken, was in fact a pretty hardy lady who was old when I was born, so the whole thing was still a shock. Still no rush, I came the next day; the funeral was two days later, then I was back in DC.
My aunt died unexpectedly. It was miserable. I came the next day. My brother showed up two days later, after much maneuvering. We attended the funeral, hung out with the family, then I went home.
But this time, he wasn't dead yet. I was rushing home to say goodbye. I needed to get there. But I couldn't make it go any faster. I had no control of traffic. I had no control of the plane. I couldn't make the country any smaller, the miles any less. All I could do was sit there for hours, and hope I made it in time.
I got off the plane after four hours, with a layover and one hour of flying to go and I checked my messages. There were two, one from my mom.
"Anika, it's your mom. (Sigh) Call me when you get this."
And right then I knew. I called but I didn't need to. He died a half hour before I got off the plane.
I didn't make it.
I still had two more hours until I reached Columbus. I had two more hours to sit and think about the funeral I was about to attend; about my mother being the only sibling left; and my grandparents dealing with the death of yet, another child.
But surprisingly, all I could think was this:
East Coast: 2, West Coast: 0
posted by Anika at 2:04 AM
2 Comments:
Come back to DC! We can even pretend to be engaged again.
You're not alone in not liking LA. My friend Kevin moved out there from DC a few months before you did, and he's probably going to come back here.
Rob
Thanks for the kind words, folks. I think my problem is I already don't love it in LA, so the distance makes it worse, especially during an emergency. If you want to move out to CA, go for it, Mo. My brother likes it in San Fran. The distance is rarely a problem.
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