The weather this morning had temperatures that hovered around perfection. It reminded me of the weather in Chula Vista. We spent 7 years in sunny Southern California. There are many things I do not miss but I will always miss the weather. It's been said that San Diego has some of the best weather on the planet. Temperatures in Chula Vista stayed close to 70 degrees most of the year. On Christmas and Thanksgiving we barbecued our turkeys in the back yard.
Many of the locals complained about the occasional rain. Average San Diego rainfall at the coast is 9.9 inches a year. Since I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, with endless varieties of rain, I figured that they were just ignorant. Even then, their complaining surprised me. Short rainstorms were almost always followed by hours of sun on those rare days when it actually rained. I did learn not to drive in the rain. I, who, had driven in all kinds of inclement weather learned to fear the demolition derby that came with wet highways. You can't safely drive over 80 miles an hour on freeways, slick with days and weeks of oily build up, flushed with a new rain. It was one of the things that Southern Californians do that earns them the title, Idiots.
We were only in San Diego for a few days, I was behind the wheel of my front-fenderless, brown Saab. Suddenly, Andy screamed at me, "Step on it! You're going to get us killed." I promptly burst into tears and yelled back, "You don't have to be so mean about it." To which he replied with great volume, "I'm sorry. I just wanted to save our lives. You have to be more aggressive." Fortunately, I learn quickly when survival is at stake. I learned how to drive like a Californian. Once in a while, that skill still comes in handy. Andy was right even if his delivery lacked sensitivity. Hesitation is much more dangerous than quick action. I do mean quick.
When we had days off together, we'd often head north to LA. We especially enjoyed going to Anaheim and Disneyland. I think it's wasted on kids. You have to be old enough to appreciate it. On these trips north, I usually rode shotgun. (Not literally but I understand now why someone would.) It was my job to watch for brake lights in the slow lane. Since some of the freeways have six lanes or more and since all of the freeways have speeds of 70 to 80 miles an hour when traffic is moving, my job was an important one.
You could be hurtling down the freeway at 75 miles an hour, when traffic ahead would suddenly stop. We soon learned that there was an warning in the form of brake lights in the slow lane. Once brake lights appeared in the slow lane, within seconds brake lights would light up across each lane in turn. It was almost like synchronized swimming. I'd sit on the edge of the passenger seat, my feet working my imaginary brake and gas pedal, watching for those brake lights. These trips were also lessons in the swerve-to-the-left manuever. Often, while racing along in the fast lane, traffic would suddenly stop. Cars following closely (and everyone follows closely) need a bigger stop zone. If you were traveling in a lane that had an opening to your left when the traffic halted, you'd brake and angle toward the opening to avoid rear-ending the car in front. The first few times I witnessed this, it took a while to get my heart back in my chest. Over time, I got so used to it, that I'd use it myself. Much better than a fender bender. It was also an extra kick of adrenaline in a land where fast-paced is a way of life. Lost in crowds of millions, adrenaline assures you that you are still alive.
During our California years, I flew home to join my mom and dad at a family reunion in Idaho. The first day or so in Grangeville, Idaho was difficult. Everyone was so slow. Clerks chatted with customers. Perfect strangers were polite. Cars stopped to let you cross the main street through town. This behavior was unexpected. How dare they? I was suffering from an acute case of culture shock. In Southern California, the average fast food worker or retail clerk acts upset that they would actually have to wait on you. When perfect strangers in Grangeville, Idaho were polite, I was suspicious. What did they want from me? I'd warily clutch my purse and watch their every move. Fortunately, I adapted quickly. This was the way to live.
Once Andy and I had children, we became disenchanted with the few remaining pluses of the Southern California lifestyle. It's a fun place to be single or childless but we found that it wasn't the place we wanted to raise a family. We had a good life there. We both worked. I actually worked for a division of Harcourt Brace, General Cinema, the publishing/media giant. My job had a fancy title. I was working in a job of which many English majors only dream. Truth is that for me it was a crappy job. I was a prisoner on the 19th floor of a downtown skyscraper with a cubicle for a cell. More like hell. The corporate world earned my disdain here. One day, I walked off the job and never returned. A dramatic and unexpected move that I have never regretted. I never will.
Gone are the days of jobs with fancy titles that give the illusion of a career. Gone on the days of road trips up to Disneyland, Los Angeles, San Luis Obispo, Santa Barbara. When Andy worked for the airlines, we often flew around the country. Spent time back East, weekends in San Francisco, back to Portland to visit. The children that we both desired and welcomed changed our world. We've made many sacrifices.
When Pacific Northwest weather blesses us with days like today, I'll remember how wonderful my weather once was all year round. Then, I remember why we moved back and what proves time and time again to be the most important thing in our lives. Even now, with everything so uncertain, I can remember Southern California and our life there fondly and still believe that we made the right choice. No regrets.
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