There's no place like home...
The problem is, I can’t seem to figure out where HOME actually is. On June 12, the day before I flew west for my annual summer stint of patio lounging and fridge raiding at Hotel 519, I was pretty much certain that New Haven, Connecticut was my home. Some data in support of this hypothesis:
1. My recycling carton says “New Haven Recycles.” Or at least it did, before the brawny recycling collectors tossed/slammed it back onto the sidewalk one too many times. Now partially shattered, it appropriately reads “New Haven Rec.”
2. It is none other than New Haven’s harrowing potholes that I have memorized, knowing precisely when to swerve left on Prospect just before the hockey rink parking lot, and when to dodge right when crossing the intersection at College and Crown.
3. My running buddies and I congregate each Saturday at 9 a.m. at the corner of Cottage and Livingston in New Haven’s homey East Rock neighborhood. After running for no more than 30 minutes, we then saunter to Lulu’s Café at Cottage and Orange were we sit and gossip for no less than 2 hours. A strenuous morning, I tell you. And a morning spent doing things one does near home, no?
This is all solid data, if a tad correlative, suggesting that when my plane took off from Hartford on July 13th, my heart should have fluttered a bit with sadness as I watched the lush green hills and neat picket fences of the Hartford suburbs grew smaller and disappear.
But of course, anyone who has talked to me for more than five minutes since 1995 knows two things about me for sure. The first is that I’m from California. NORTHERN California. The second is that despite my love of many northeastern things, I view my time in New England as a period of self-inflicted exile of somewhat indefinite length. And I WILL BE MOVING BACK AS SOON AS POSSIPLE. Though I have tried to go easy on the nostalgic descriptions of Northern California’s food, weather and oak tree-dotted terrain, I have no doubt tortured many friends in Vermont, New York and Connecticut with lengthy tales of The West.
So. All this sounds an awful lot like The Golden State is still my real home, right? The place my conscious mind recalls when considering holidays at “home” and that my subconscious references in dreams when conjuring the life and circumstances of Eva, circa 2025. But how could this be? I’ve spent ten, formative adult years out here in the land of Red Sox vs. Yankees. I’ve developed a deep love of Central Park,
an appreciation for “real” seasons, and a somewhat quicker pattern of speech that only sparsely uses terms like “dude,” “like,” and “whatever.” What’s it going to take for me to feel at home on The Right Coast?
Not surprisingl, my two week stay in The Bubble did little to help me settle down and embrace my northeastern life.
On runs around Lake Merritt with Sophia, or while creeping through traffic towards the Bay Bridge toll plaza, things just made sense. There may be about a hundred times more Canada geese around the lake than I remembered, and the red construction cranes flanking the eastern span of the bridge may be a new feature, but the necklace of lights around the lake is the same and the smell of low tide hasn’t changed at all. Even if the new (to me) farmer’s market at the San Francisco Ferry Building was a bit overwhelming, the mindset of rabid foodies clustering around a stall of artisanal vinegar makes a lot more sense to me than the absolute refusal of Connecticut drivers to obey even the simplest laws of the road.
Long about June 23rd, my mind was relaxed, my three or four functioning neurons firing only when necessary to alert me to the appearance of the cat or the tasty aromas of dinner. I was in the full Northern California groove, which made getting on a plane on June 24th particularly confusing. Where was I going? Was there somewhere else I was actually supposed to be?! I couldn’t really remember what happened before the 13th. If I focused intently, scrunching my eyes shut, I could sort of remember there being a lot of science in my life. A LOT of science and a good deal of humidity, too. Rats. It was all starting to come back…
---
It has now been about two weeks since I claimed my car from the rather grandiosely named Executive VIP Airport Parking lot and cruised south down I-91 back to New Haven. Regaining my sense of residency in southern Connecticut has been slow and has encountered a few setbacks.
To start, my first thought was that no one in their right mind would make a place this hot and sticky their home. My first three days back, the mercury didn’t fall below 81 degrees in my apartment. Day time heat index adjusted highs around 90. Dewpoint was about 71. Eventually, I found my pile of shorts and tank tops and I reacquainted myself with the activity of constant perspiration.
My first week back also coincided with a period of housesitting for my vacationing advisor. As a fish-owning, apartment-renting pedestrian, my normal routine was upended by twice daily trips to West Haven to feed a very lonely cat, water what seemed to be several acres of lawn and planted garden and generally play the settled adult driving around in my advisor’s sedan with a baby car seat in the back. My home? My life? Where?!
But I think things are just about back to normal. This morning, Amy, James, John, Kirk, Peter and I all huffed and puffed our way around East Rock before setting up camp at Lulu’s with iced coffees all around. My fridge is full of non-gourmet food from Stop and Shop and I have an experiment going in lab. Turns out I have a rather interesting thesis going on back here that requires some attention.
I’m still not convinced that this is really home, regardless of what my mailing address says. I still don’t understand why people have to drive like such idiots, though I’m working on a theory. Last week, on one of my many trips to and from Craig’s house, I pulled up to a stop light a few blocks from my apartment. As Connecticut is a “No Turn on Red” state and New Haven’s traffic pattern is asinine, I had about five minutes to sit and inspect my surroundings. Eventually, my gaze settled on one of those unremarkable poles displaying all sorts of municipal notices about , bus stops, parking rules during snow emergencies and requirements for a residential zone 7 parking.
Squinting, I could see that at the very top of the pole was a signing reading “BUCKLE UP” with a cartoon of a stick figure wearing a seat belt. Hang on… IS that a stick figure? What is that? Why does that look like an ALIEN wearing a seat belt? Why is that alien pointing up? Is that E.T.?! What the hell is going on here?
When the light turned green, I pulled around the corner and parked. I grabbed my camera and took off down the street to inspect the BUCKLE UP sign more closely. What I found is posted above and is, I believe, very strong evidence in support of my new theory: the reason why New Haven drivers refuse to signal, why they run red lights with abandon and routinely drive the wrong way down one way streets isn’t that they’re inconsiderate human beings. It’s that they’re aliens, aliens who were taught to drive at an alien DMV that doesn’t care much about preventing bodily injury.
And the reason why I have not been able to adopt New Haven (or New England, for that matter) as my home despite 10 years of trying, is that this isn’t just the wrong town, it’s the wrong PLANET.
1. My recycling carton says “New Haven Recycles.” Or at least it did, before the brawny recycling collectors tossed/slammed it back onto the sidewalk one too many times. Now partially shattered, it appropriately reads “New Haven Rec.”
2. It is none other than New Haven’s harrowing potholes that I have memorized, knowing precisely when to swerve left on Prospect just before the hockey rink parking lot, and when to dodge right when crossing the intersection at College and Crown.
3. My running buddies and I congregate each Saturday at 9 a.m. at the corner of Cottage and Livingston in New Haven’s homey East Rock neighborhood. After running for no more than 30 minutes, we then saunter to Lulu’s Café at Cottage and Orange were we sit and gossip for no less than 2 hours. A strenuous morning, I tell you. And a morning spent doing things one does near home, no?
This is all solid data, if a tad correlative, suggesting that when my plane took off from Hartford on July 13th, my heart should have fluttered a bit with sadness as I watched the lush green hills and neat picket fences of the Hartford suburbs grew smaller and disappear.
But of course, anyone who has talked to me for more than five minutes since 1995 knows two things about me for sure. The first is that I’m from California. NORTHERN California. The second is that despite my love of many northeastern things, I view my time in New England as a period of self-inflicted exile of somewhat indefinite length. And I WILL BE MOVING BACK AS SOON AS POSSIPLE. Though I have tried to go easy on the nostalgic descriptions of Northern California’s food, weather and oak tree-dotted terrain, I have no doubt tortured many friends in Vermont, New York and Connecticut with lengthy tales of The West.
So. All this sounds an awful lot like The Golden State is still my real home, right? The place my conscious mind recalls when considering holidays at “home” and that my subconscious references in dreams when conjuring the life and circumstances of Eva, circa 2025. But how could this be? I’ve spent ten, formative adult years out here in the land of Red Sox vs. Yankees. I’ve developed a deep love of Central Park,
an appreciation for “real” seasons, and a somewhat quicker pattern of speech that only sparsely uses terms like “dude,” “like,” and “whatever.” What’s it going to take for me to feel at home on The Right Coast?
Not surprisingl, my two week stay in The Bubble did little to help me settle down and embrace my northeastern life.
On runs around Lake Merritt with Sophia, or while creeping through traffic towards the Bay Bridge toll plaza, things just made sense. There may be about a hundred times more Canada geese around the lake than I remembered, and the red construction cranes flanking the eastern span of the bridge may be a new feature, but the necklace of lights around the lake is the same and the smell of low tide hasn’t changed at all. Even if the new (to me) farmer’s market at the San Francisco Ferry Building was a bit overwhelming, the mindset of rabid foodies clustering around a stall of artisanal vinegar makes a lot more sense to me than the absolute refusal of Connecticut drivers to obey even the simplest laws of the road.
Long about June 23rd, my mind was relaxed, my three or four functioning neurons firing only when necessary to alert me to the appearance of the cat or the tasty aromas of dinner. I was in the full Northern California groove, which made getting on a plane on June 24th particularly confusing. Where was I going? Was there somewhere else I was actually supposed to be?! I couldn’t really remember what happened before the 13th. If I focused intently, scrunching my eyes shut, I could sort of remember there being a lot of science in my life. A LOT of science and a good deal of humidity, too. Rats. It was all starting to come back…
---
It has now been about two weeks since I claimed my car from the rather grandiosely named Executive VIP Airport Parking lot and cruised south down I-91 back to New Haven. Regaining my sense of residency in southern Connecticut has been slow and has encountered a few setbacks.
To start, my first thought was that no one in their right mind would make a place this hot and sticky their home. My first three days back, the mercury didn’t fall below 81 degrees in my apartment. Day time heat index adjusted highs around 90. Dewpoint was about 71. Eventually, I found my pile of shorts and tank tops and I reacquainted myself with the activity of constant perspiration.
My first week back also coincided with a period of housesitting for my vacationing advisor. As a fish-owning, apartment-renting pedestrian, my normal routine was upended by twice daily trips to West Haven to feed a very lonely cat, water what seemed to be several acres of lawn and planted garden and generally play the settled adult driving around in my advisor’s sedan with a baby car seat in the back. My home? My life? Where?!
But I think things are just about back to normal. This morning, Amy, James, John, Kirk, Peter and I all huffed and puffed our way around East Rock before setting up camp at Lulu’s with iced coffees all around. My fridge is full of non-gourmet food from Stop and Shop and I have an experiment going in lab. Turns out I have a rather interesting thesis going on back here that requires some attention.
I’m still not convinced that this is really home, regardless of what my mailing address says. I still don’t understand why people have to drive like such idiots, though I’m working on a theory. Last week, on one of my many trips to and from Craig’s house, I pulled up to a stop light a few blocks from my apartment. As Connecticut is a “No Turn on Red” state and New Haven’s traffic pattern is asinine, I had about five minutes to sit and inspect my surroundings. Eventually, my gaze settled on one of those unremarkable poles displaying all sorts of municipal notices about , bus stops, parking rules during snow emergencies and requirements for a residential zone 7 parking.
Squinting, I could see that at the very top of the pole was a signing reading “BUCKLE UP” with a cartoon of a stick figure wearing a seat belt. Hang on… IS that a stick figure? What is that? Why does that look like an ALIEN wearing a seat belt? Why is that alien pointing up? Is that E.T.?! What the hell is going on here?
When the light turned green, I pulled around the corner and parked. I grabbed my camera and took off down the street to inspect the BUCKLE UP sign more closely. What I found is posted above and is, I believe, very strong evidence in support of my new theory: the reason why New Haven drivers refuse to signal, why they run red lights with abandon and routinely drive the wrong way down one way streets isn’t that they’re inconsiderate human beings. It’s that they’re aliens, aliens who were taught to drive at an alien DMV that doesn’t care much about preventing bodily injury.
And the reason why I have not been able to adopt New Haven (or New England, for that matter) as my home despite 10 years of trying, is that this isn’t just the wrong town, it’s the wrong PLANET.
posted by Eva Marie at 7:32 PM
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