This is living

Fri, 05 Mar 2004 07:55:25 PST

You don't see many Pink Floyd tee-shirts around here. New York punk is a rumor that only a few eclectic sorts seem to have heard of. Alienated youth spend their time smoking pot and picking litter off the beach. There's a distinct lack of angst here that only serves to make me feel guilty for harboring East Coast-style fits of brooding. Six months after moving to San Diego I quit smoking. The guilt of throwing butts out the window was beginning to weigh too much on my conscience. This isn't to imply I've become a conformist or environmentalist or any other scary -ist. I'm a Southern girl, and Southern girls rather enjoy their status as a breed apart. Southern girls carry their sensibilities and their flair for drama wherever they go. It's just a bother to look for drama when you're listing to the Bob Marley hour on the radio.

Folks are nice here. Crazy, sure. But nice enough to hang up the cell phone to offer directions to a befuddled - um, "newbie." Ordinarily I'd use the word "yankee." That's another thing. The local population seems to be totally unaware of the ongoing culture war that's been raging on both sides of the Mason Dixon for the last couple of centuries. Their interest in the South lies mainly in confirming suspicions that we cook our greens and have four seasons despite the similar latitude. Lightning terrifies these people. You'd think after earthquakes and wildfires and California highway patrolman that lightning wouldn't be any big deal. I really do miss thunderstorms and turnip greens. And barbeque. That particular dish will set you back about eight bucks a plate, if you can find it. And no matter how desperate you are, don't think you'll get your fix at the Korean or Hawaiian BBQ joints.

I suspect there's a deeper affinity toward the South here than any other part of the country. I'm inclined to feel at home in a place where bluegrass bands play at community festivals and small farmers still hold some political sway. This isn't home, though- fishing means white sea bass, camping means driving two hours to find a man-made canal with an oak tree or two, hiking in the mountains means scrambling up a big mesquite covered rock to get a view of lots more mesquite, down-home cooking means everything is covered in guacamole, and an accent means you should brush up on your Spanish. At any rate the people here don't look at your feet to see if they are shod, and they don't make slurs about your education or your parentage. That's something, at least.

The girl says "There's no place like home," and she's absolutely right.

Ballad Salad

This is living