Skipping Town

Last night at the Laundromat, Andrew went out to get something from our car and had an encounter with a combative Sacramentan. “Nice bumper sticker,” the guy said, climbing out of a car whose backseat was stuffed with piles of newspapers. He was referring to our “Keep Tahoe Blue” sticker and not, as you might think, our “The Christian Right Is Neither” sticker that graced our bumper when we bought the car. “Thanks,” Andrew said. “It’s for a good cause.” “Yeah,” the combatant said. “But I wish they’d’a done the sticker right. The lake isn’t blue, it’s clear. It should say ‘Keep Tahoe Clear.’” “Actually, the lake is blue,” Andrew said. “No, it’s not. If the water was blue, there’d be a problem. Do you drink blue water? Do you? What color's the water you drink--blue?” He got up close to Andrew's face, then turned and touched the sticker as though he was considering pulling it off. I must point out here that Andrew and I have never been under the impression that the water is blue,

I’ve married a masochist. This has become all too clear to me in the past few months, when any sane person would simply bear down, head lowered against a strong wind, and weather his time on the West Coast with as much humor and bravery and patience as humanly possible. One would not, one would imagine, spend much time looking at real estate listings on the New York Times website, since such listings would serve not only to remind one of being far away from home but also to rub one’s face in the very life that one is not presently leading. But Andrew apparently likes inflicting this sort of pain upon himself. Every now and then during the week, I’ll hear his grim voice call out feebly from my office area, beckoning me with a somber “Come and look at this.” It’s always a fabulous brownstone in Park Slope or a stunning five-bedroom home in Connecticut or a bookshelf-lined co-op on the Upper West Side or an eighteenth-century farmhouse in a town within spitting distance of the Hudson. Gr

I’ve been fighting off a cold for the past few days, so Friday night we went out for some restorative frozen yogurt. Then we faced off over Scrabble, and, though I lost, it was not without trying my hardest to incorporate my two new favorite words: bunya and hod. Incidentally, those seem promising choices for the names of any future children we may have. Saturday I went to yoga, and then we spent the day simply relaxing at home. I read more of M.F.K. Fisher’s Among Friends while Andrew worked on his website. We had dinner at Café Marika, a tiny, five-table Hungarian restaurant in our neighborhood, run by a husband and wife team. Our meals were delicious—pork schnitzel and goulash, served with a potato and mushroom soup, spetzel in a tasty paprika sauce, and an apple pastry for dessert. (Total bill: $30. A small city has its charms.) Later, we watched Man on Wire , a documentary about Philippe Petit’s amazing tightrope walk between the towers of the World Trade Center in 1974. On Sunda

I can’t complain about strange coastal flora, and one of the best things about exploring California’s coastline is spotting the weird wildflowers and plants growing among the sea scrub and rocks. For Christmas Andrew got me a field guide to California, so perhaps I’ll be able to do some identification next time we go.

I can’t complain about being in Steinbeck country. There’s always something fun about wandering around in a dead writer’s footsteps, and California is firmly Steinbeck territory. In August 2007 Andrew and I went to Monterey for a weekend to see Cannery Row, and I read East of Eden and Tortilla Flat —and remembered Grapes of Wrath —with a new understanding of the landscape he describes.

I can’t complain about the redwoods. Wandering through a redwood forest is one of my favorite things to do here in California, and the two areas we’ve explored so far—the Hendy Woods and Muir Woods—have been amazing. There’s something particularly relaxing and peaceful about wandering through trees that have been around for centuries, their stick-straight trunks careening skyward, shading the paths with the needles that splay from their very tops.

On Saturday, Andrew and I took advantage of the strangely spring-like temperatures and embarked on a day trip to Sausalito, just over the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. Instantly charming, Sausalito’s main drag looks out over the sailboat-dotted water, and you can see the San Francisco skyline from a distance—as well as the Golden Gate Bridge, though for us it was a bit too hazy to see. Above the main street of shops, cafes, and restaurants are steep streets and beautiful houses set among the hills, looking out at the spectacular view. We had lunch at the Bridgeway Café, sitting—in January!—at an outdoor table in the sun so we could people-watch and enjoy our proximity to the water. The streets were full of cyclists, many of whom we suspect had ridden over the Golden Gate Bridge for lunch in Sausalito—something we could easily imagine ourselves doing, were we to become San Franciscans. Surprisingly, Sausalito felt very European—were it not for the English being spoken around us

I can’t complain about the Tower movie theater and restaurant, located in a landmark building in Sacramento. The theater has soft, comfortable seats that seem—in shabby chic style—just one extra pound away from breaking; and the theater, which opened in 1938, has an air of pleasant decay. The film lineup is always outstanding, and, happily, one thing I simply cannot say is “That film will never come to Sacramento”—in all likelihood, it might. Connected to the theater is the Tower Cafe, where we sometimes have a burger before or after a movie. There are outdoor tables tucked in among palm trees and planters; not a bad place to while away a little time.

For anyone who hasn’t read Revolutionary Road , the story goes something like this: two bright young people, Frank and April, meet and fall in love in New York City; an accidental pregnancy sends them to the suburbs and traps Frank in a corporate job he scorns. As the years slip away and their seemingly destined great achievements remain out of reach, they decide to take matters into their own hands and move to Paris, where Frank can “find himself” while April supports him. Their planning rejuvenates them, but it ultimately goes awry because of yet another unplanned pregnancy. Frank is secretly relieved; April is devastated. Her death at the end is a tricky blend of accident and suicide. This bare-bones summary ignores pretty much everything that makes this book so brutally amazing: The self-consciousness of every word the Wheelers speak. The secret pride Frank feels in his work, which he is forced to continuously deny through bitter irony and distain lest he be just like everyone else

I shouldn’t complain about Northern California’s mild temperatures…but I will, introducing a variation on the ICCA theme. I shouldn’t complain about high-sixties/low-seventies in January, but it’s JANUARY. I listen with envy to those back home, aflutter with snowstorms and record lows. I think with nostalgia of my favorite winter coat, which I didn’t even bother moving out here. And last night—there was a mosquito in our apartment, heralding another season of middle-of-the-night mosquito hunts. It’s enough to make us move. To Nevada City, that is. Or at least to an apartment with brand-new window screens.

I've written before that one of the elderly ladies who live next door has an extraordinarily loud and high-pitched phone voice. ("DON'T FORGET YOUR NEW YORK CLOTHES!") Today I heard the following, delivered with a particularly intrusive urgency and volume: IT'S SOUP. IT'S SOUP AND YOU EAT THE SALAD AS THE MAIN COURSE. IT COMES WITH POTATO AND CHUNKS OF TUNA. Eating the salad as the main course seemed for her to be a novel, slightly suspect activity, something to be accepted reluctantly, with eyebrows raised at these crazy, new-fangled ideas.

I can’t complain—certainly can’t complain—about the low cost of living here in Sacramento. From our reasonable rent to our twelve-year-old Volvo to the generally inexpensive restaurants, we’ve kept our expenses low enough here so that we’re able to take frequent weekend trips and nurture our house fund (to be tapped on the East Coast, of course). In a weird way, we even owe our Japan trip to Sacramento. Thanks, Sacto.* *The nickname “Sacto” will not be receiving its own ICCA entry.

On Saturday, Andrew and I hopped in the car and headed into the Sierra Nevada foothills to explore a few old Gold Rush towns. First stop: Grass Valley, with a small Main Street and a surprising number of small bookstores. After a quick stroll, we continued on to Nevada City. Here we struck gold, so to speak (what a terrible, terrible, though inevitable pun), with a charming downtown full of shops and restaurants; most of the buildings dated from the 1800s and had been charmingly restored. The town was bustling, the streets and cafes crowded, though we’re not sure if it’s usually like this or if the crowds were there for the Wild & Scenic Environmental Film Festival that was taking place. We had lunch at Lefty’s, a cute gourmet burger place with a pressed-tin ceiling and exposed brick walls; we could have been in Park Slope. After lunch, we explored some of the residential streets, full of cute Victorians and lots of trees. We made a tentative gesture toward living in Nevada City by

I can’t complain about Husch Vineyards, a small winery in Philo, California. We discovered this winery on our first wine country expedition shortly after we moved West, and we were instantly smitten, by its small wooden tasting room as much as by the outstanding chardonnay—it made converts of us both. We’re members now, with a shipment coming twice a year and a picnic in the summer, where this picture was taken.

I can’t complain about the CalNeva Resort, a hotel/casino situated right on the California/Nevada border. Andrew and I have been there twice in the year we’ve lived here, and on both visits we felt a pleasant sense of having stepped into another time. Frank Sinatra, Marilyn Monroe, JFK, the mafia—ghosts and stories litter the dark-beamed rooms and the cabins outside that overlook Lake Tahoe.

I can’t complain about the California coast. A drive down Highway 1 was one of the first weekend trips we took after moving West, and though we’ve seen the coastline several times since then, I can still remember my first glimpses of the Pacific—dramatic, churning, with the coastline rock-strewn, windy, and cold. There was an edge-of-the-earth feeling, of hovering someplace unexpected on the globe.

Last night, Andrew and I drove to the airport so Andrew could catch a flight to Las Vegas for a business trip. I then drove home alone. It is a simple drive—only about twenty minutes, with just one exit to remember—and I’ve done it many times with no problem. I did not need a GPS. However, I used a GPS—just to try it out for the first time (it was a Christmas gift from Mom and Dad)—and can confidently say that this little device will change my life. Like sight to a blind man, I have been given the gift of a sense of direction; NorCal is no longer a sprawling tangle of highways and exits and shopping centers but a navigable, digital series of puzzles for our GPS to solve. The best part? I can just sit back while she solves those puzzles, then ease my foot onto the gas as she dictates the solutions, road by road, turn by turn. What if, last night, I had missed my single exit? It would have been no problem. I would not have had to feel my heart rate accelerate as I realized I was fast on

I can’t complain about San Francisco—or, more accurately, being just an hour and a half’s drive from the City on the Bay. I can’t complain about the hilly streets, the nice restaurants and shops, the museums, the countless neighborhoods yet to be explored. And I definitely can’t complain about the vestiges of sixties attitude weaving in and out of daily life, like the naked people strolling casually among the runners in the Bay to Breakers race, and the crowd’s unflappable reaction. “It takes all kinds,” a woman said, “and San Francisco just has a larger variety of kinds.”

Over the holidays, on the occasion of perhaps the hundred and fiftieth time Andrew or I bemoaned our West Coast residence and expressed a longing to return East, we were told, numerous times, the following: Stop complaining. You have nothing to complain about. –my mother I can’t believe you actually live in California. Awful. –Molly, being helpful Stop complaining. What’s one nice thing about California? Name one. Name one. You should name a different one every day. –Andrew’s sister It’s an interesting challenge. And so let it begin today: each day I will attempt, along with my usual blog posts, to include a note on something I like about California. The series shall be called “I Can’t Complain About…” (ICCA), and while I won’t guarantee a daily entry, I will do my best. Who knows? I might just talk myself into wanting to stay here forever. Let the un-complaining begin.

2009, and another year in Sacramento. We finished off 2008 in a style I could get accustomed to—spending only two of the last six weeks of the year actually in California. Our Christmas travels took us on an East Coast tour, from Pittsburgh to Rochester to Jacksonville. We had six flights in all, one of them through Chicago in the midst of a terrible snowstorm and hundreds of flight cancellations; yet we made it through unscathed. There were some tense moments, but we felt incredibly lucky—we overheard countless people being involuntarily bumped, with the next available flight not hours but days away. Now here we are, another New Year’s Eve behind us. It was fine as far as New Year’s Eves go, a nice night in New Smyrna Beach, Florida with Andrew’s sister and college friends. My ideal New Year’s Eve, however, remains elusive. Over my desk hangs a Verlyn Klinkenborg column in which he talks about spending the Eve with his horses on his farm; this is as close as it gets to my perfect NYE: