I never thought I’d say it. I hold tightly to my New York driver’s license, presenting it proudly when asked for ID. I cling to the distilled New Yorker identity — intellectual, drinker of copious amounts of coffee, fast walker and aggressive driver. But here I am, four years after flying West on a one-way ticket to San Francisco, utterly smitten with the golden state. I find myself softening around the edges in the warm sun, enjoying my year-round bronzed skin, and relishing in the fact that I can drive a few hours in any direction and be somewhere new — the rolling vineyards and green hills of the coastal mountains, lush with the moist ocean breeze. The deserts of the South — with lunar landscapes of beige, and spindly plants that stretch their arms towards the starry night sky. Or the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada, with soaring granite mountains and ridgelines and meadows of wildflowers, crystalline lakes. Californ-i-a.
I often think about leaving. As there are so many places yet to see on this star-spangled, great wide expanse. I’m often anxious about these places — what if one of them is perfect for me? Has everything I want to settle down, the perfect home, the perfect community, the perfect ratio of culture and the outdoors. I grow frantic with these thoughts. But every time I think about leaving I find that I just can’t. Not right now anyways. I feel that after four years I’ve finally just brushed the surface of the community I’ve always wanted to be a part of. The dirtbags of Yosemite Valley and the Eastern Sierra — with their myriad of climbing accomplishments and skills but all with the same dream — living here forever. Amongst the sage brush and sand, at the base of those blue-grey giants, the infinite playground, the harbors of mountain fantasy.
And so for now, I stay. And New York seems like a forgotten dream.
