I moved to San Diego a year and a half ago. I longed for the endless 70-80 degree days filled with sunshine. I dreamt of an apartment half a block from the beach and saved diligently for my dream yellow jeep wrangler. It’s a beautiful place and no words can caption the sunsets experienced here at Tamarack Beach in Carlsbad, CA.
But truthfully? I miss home. Is it because of my 7 year old niece who is growing like a Chia Pet and I feel like I am missing out? Possibly. Is it because of my recently married sister who will soon have children and I want to be a part of their lives? Most likely. Is it due to the face that I have (let’s be real) aging parents who (really) aren’t getting any younger? Well, obviously.
But ultimately, I miss home because—well it’s home. There is no place like home—and there is no place like New England.
Honestly, any person out here who I have remotely considered a friend or someone I could be “real” with, was a person from the east coast. There is something about the seasons—the sports—the lifestyle—that makes them, well real.
Because out here it is a dream.
You know the feeling of the first nice day in the Spring? It’s ecstasy for New Englanders. It is not warm enough to wear shorts or warm enough to truly drive with your windows down—yet we do and it is the most joyful feeling. Everyone is fuckin happy on the first nice day after a long ass winter. You can’t comprehend it unless you’ve lived it. I’ve tried to explain it to people out here—they just don’t get it. The experience of our harsh winters somehow shapes us into being the toughass, sarcastic, seemingly invincible human beings that we are.
No one out here truly appreciates my puns, my sarcasm, my profanity— unless they are from the east cost.
The idea of settling here and raising kids here—scares me. I want my kids to grow up with the same experiences as me. I want them to have a rough side and to appreciate the good days. When you grow up in paradise out here— it makes you soft. I don’t want my kids being soft.
So well I lived my dream—it taught me to how valuable my roots are. It taught me about how fuckin lucky I am to call myself a New Englander. The people out here are truly like no other. We are real. We say what’s on our mind, we don’t fuck around, and we are so quick with our thoughts and come backs that outsiders are impressed before realizing they should be offended.
So I’ll soak up the skin cancer for another year or so then head back to my roots. I don’t regret my decision to move out here and follow my dream because it is truly an awesome place, but it’s just not real enough. I miss the bluntness. I’m sick of the censorship. I want to complain about real shit, like blizzards and negative temperatures, rather than complaining about a 60 degree morning or two days of ::GASP:: marine layer.
When you have to wake up an hour early to shovel out your car and defrost the lock, then come talk to me. Ignorance is bliss — but I am not ignorant so I can’t live in bliss out here.
Take me back to where I belong, to where America started, to where people say what’s on their mind, to where people are loyal and will fight for what they believe in, to where people will kick back beers not because it’s happy hour (because all hell would break loose if we had happy hours out here) but because it’s been a long fuckin’ work day and we need it. New Englanders understand the struggle because we experience it. We know how to deal with it seriously, but more importantly humorously. Sarcasm shapes us and anyone who doesn’t understand can go fuck themselves.
So I moved out to San Diego a year and a half ago and well I thought I’d be basking in the glory of my fulfilled dream, I only realized the true value of what I left. Yes, no words can caption the sunsets out here— but I’d take loyalty, camaraderie, and genuineness over beauty any day. Boston: I’ll see you soon.