Should I Stay, or Should I Go?

In my latest post-quake musings about why I live in Los Angeles (that is, why I STILL live in Los Angeles), I found this photo of me at 12, during my first visit to California. Dad was on tour in Sweden and Czechoslovakia with Paul Anka, Mom met him in Amsterdam at the end of the tour...and I got to frolic in the Pacific waves, in front of my godparents' beach house in Paradise Cove. It was as far in distance and lifestyle from New York City as I'd ever been–and I'd spent summers on Lake Champlain in Vermont and springs in the foothills of North Carolina, which were already big leaps away from life in Manhattan.

I returned to Malibu the next summer, and the summer after the next, falling in love a little more each time. Was it Malibu I adored, or all of LA? While the former's an obvious choice, I'd say the latter, since we often drove into town for Billy's work in the Hollywood film, television and music studios, or to stay at Yuriko's parents' sweet Steinkamp Spanish house in Leimert Park. In fact, we drove all over Los Angeles, from Topanga Canyon to the Downtown Fashion District (Yuriko’s relative had a warehouse filled with samples we could purchase for a pittance), from Studio City for Peggy Lee's birthday party to Dogtown for the last days of Pacific Ocean Park. In the three summers I spent here at 12, 13 and 15, I was able to access an unguarded spirit, a relaxed energy that had no place in my hometown.

In my 23rd year, after leaving the Upper West Side for the Bay Area to work with Dad, who died three weeks after my arrival, I had a few options: stay in the East Bay, move into San Francisco, move back to Manhattan, or move to the city of my teenage dreams. My choice was the last, but I’m not sure it’s the last choice I’ll make.

I miss my first hometown all the time; moreso, living in the most urban of Los Angeles neighborhoods. There is simply no comparison to be made between Manhattan and DTLA, which is still learning how to be a real city. I’ve been down here over 14 years, and my frustrations with its slow evolution (and current devolution) grow daily. But I’m not moving so soon after Mom’s death. And, while I talk about the possibility of living in other towns, other states, other countries, it’s too much to seriously consider right now.

I will say this: I’ve noticed that every time I arrive at JFK, I feel like I’m home. And every time I arrive at LAX, I feel like I’m on vacation. Even after all these years. I can’t explain it; it just is. Do I want to be home or on vacation? Is there a third alternative?

Maybe it was Confucius, or Bill W. and Dr. Bob, or Buckaroo Bonzai, who stated this irrefutable truth: “No matter where you go, there you are.”

It was definitely The Clash who asked the musical question I’m asking now.

Although I’m certainly no longer that girl in the photo enthralled by West Coast waters, I am absolutely this curious woman wondering about the next wave.