It's day three in New York, my first visit back since we moved two months ago. That's not long enough to feel substantially different about the city; the things that excited before still excite, and the things that grated still grate. But I have enjoyed walking again—not just a little, but everywhere, at a pace that would startle people in Santa Barbara. As much as I love that area of California, I've become a bit weary of all the driving: When I grow antsy at home, I'm resistant to getting back in the car, which leads me to stasis, and ennui.
Also, I've had stuff to do here. Not just seeing friends, which is obviously a highlight (even the two who are now on probation for saying I remind them of the guy from the Verizon/Sprint ads), but running errands. The sense of accomplishment, however minor, that comes with crossing something off the to-do list is endlessly satisfying to me. I like taking care of business, and I have very little of that in Santa Barbara right now, because we've settled in, we're renting a furnished house, and I have yet to launch a website.
There's also the lesser type of social interaction—with acquaintances as opposed to friends, I suppose—that we have none of in California. A lot of that relates to being in a groove, which we still haven't achieved out West. Here in New York, however, I can slip back into the groove with no effort at all, swimming at the old pool, going to the old cafés, and chatting with the same employees, business owners, and residents of our apartment building that I used to. I've missed that chatting in Santa Barbara, especially when Adam was away, but it's possible I overvalued it. What I have noticed on this trip is how there isn't much to say to people you don't know well.
Me: Hi!
Acquaintance: You're back! How's California?
Me: It's terrific, especially this time of year. How have you been?
Acquaintance: Great!
And then we sort of look at each other. These interactions can add up to a feeling of belonging, but individually, they're a light lunch.
In any event, the conversion (back) to being a Californian may be further along than I think. Yesterday morning, in the locker room at the pool, I overshot my locker. Oh, that's right, I thought. I parked over there.
P.S. I loved Lucio Fontana's slashed paintings, on view at the Met Breuer.
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