"You live WHERE now?"
Although I moved to Seattle a little more than two years ago I'm still blissfully unaware of geographical connotations. For instance, back in Los Angeles I knew there could be differences between living north or south of a particular boulevard, of what turning a block left or right could mean to the locals. I sort of understood how it was possible to live in a city known for its affluence -- and yet still be able to reside in the "bad" part of it.
When I first moved to Santa Monica in 1984, for instance, before I could even figure out where everything was (including myself), I was immediately informed of the nuances between living above or below Wilshire Boulevard -- of how further north toward Montana was heaven though heaven help you if you called south of the Santa Monica freeway home. In an area smaller than 9 sq. mi. even half a mile east or west would define your circumstances, at least in the (small) minds of certain people.
I've encountered this mindset everywhere I've ever lived. One time in the early '90s I bumped into an old acquaintance and we spent a few minutes catching up on the years since we last saw each other. I asked her, "So do you still live with your family in Canoga Park?" She sniffed back, "West Hills. We live in West Hills." The thing is, neither one of us was particularly wrong or right: before 1987, West Hills was merely the western part of Canoga Park. So, yes, she used to live there but she no longer does, even if her house hasn't moved an inch and herself outside of it.
So now I live in a working class suburb north of the city, where the crime rate is higher than I've been accustomed to in a long while. When we first decided to move here, for wholly practical reasons I admit, I had my reservations. The view was decidedly different, the people looked more well-worn. Then I reminded myself that for a brief period during my college years I lived in the kind of apartments where a homeless man slept inside the elevator during the cold winter months and where a drug dealer once stabbed an enemy repeatedly right outside my living room window. I once lived in neighborhoods where I've been mugged late at night right by the front door and where I had to vary my schedule of comings and goings daily so that the gang members across the street wouldn't be able to predict where I'd be when.
Despite having moved on to better and safer neighborhoods since that time, I've managed to retain my street smarts, even if they had settled somewhere in the back of my brain due to complacency. I may be a little softer now, but I still remember how to look around before entering or exiting my car. I still hold my key between my middle and index fingers as if brandishing a hidden weapon and I wear my bag close to my body. I generally don't wear expensive jewelry and I never wear shoes I can't run in. I'm prepared for this, I steeled myself as I surveyed my new area.
When I first moved here a few of my suburbia-softened coworkers expressed alarm. "No, not ________!" wailed T, a fragile-looking thing who had never lived outside of her parent's home. "Don't tell me you live there now."
Well, yes. Yes, I do, actually. She looked at me as if it were the last time she was ever going to see me.
But I've seen her many, many times since that day, and I'm still all in one piece. In fact, I've been living here for three months now and the truth is that it's been fun exploring the place. First of all, this area is teeming with international cuisine -- so much delicious food just up the street at wallet-friendly prices. Tamales for a little more than a buck each, gyro plates for the price of a McDonald's meal. Hand-pulled noodles, Bánh mì sandwiches exploding with fresh ingredients, Hawaiian and even Guamanian-Filipino mix plates. The only place missing is a fancy steakhouse -- but I'm not looking for one.
I've also met really nice people here. The shop owners are not just friendly; they really do want your repeat business. They hand out an extra stack of fresh tortillas to go with the grilled pollo you just bought, drop a couple of free baklava pieces in your bag after they caught you looking at them lovingly in the case. One of the check-out clerks at the grocery store, the one with the gray skin and pink hair, likes to overshare when you ask her how she's doing, but at least it's always interesting. Once a week I watch "Ellen" at 4 PM with the laundromat attendant; during commercials she tells me how she once suggested to her boyfriend that they marry at the little purple house/wedding chapel a couple of miles away just so they could get married now.
I don't know how long we'll be living here, but I have a funny feeling I'll miss it when we move again. That's the thing about how a place becomes home. It's not merely like becoming accustomed to a face; it's about learning to love even the parts of it you once thought looked strange. This place may not be heaven, but the fresas con crema with sliced almonds and chocolate chips we buy across the street is absolutely celestial, and the lady who makes and sells it is an angel.
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