in a bi-coastal state of mind

How to raise our baby? The choices are limitless. And what culture will we bring it up in? No, this isn't another repeat of my rant about US commercialism blah blah. No, I don't mean which culture of the globe should I move to, swaddling infant clutched to my breast, a refugee from land of the Hummer and reality TV. We have plenty of cultural choices right here at home. For example: Will this child grow an east coast heart? Or will it harbor a west coast soul? Hard to say. The following, I admit openly, has little to do with being pregnant or having a baby. I just had something to say…

This is the story of bi-coastalism. Once upon a time, I grew up like any other kid in New York - dropping r's from words, stretching out my vowels, and pretty much assuming that I lived at the center of the universe. Then we moved to New Jersey – south Jersey, where I lost the accent so as not to stand out, and pretty much assumed I lived at the center of nowhere. Enter young adulthood, college, jobs, and much shuffling about among cities on the eastern seaboard, with a year and a half sidebar to Europe, where my accent in whatever I was trying to speak was terrible, and I assumed I lived at the center of various ancient civilizations. Then, California. The cultural chasm between east and west coasts, for those who have yet to experience both, is huge. Europe was nothin'. If I am on the east coast, I often find myself defending the west, and vice versa. I am bi-coastal, both cultures a part of my psyche, never completely at home in either.

Because it's just too much fun, I enjoy playing up the stereotypes and over- generalizations of each place for the other. It's the non-stop, sarcastic, business suit east vs. earthy, crunchy California, dude. For our wedding (held on the west coast), we had our guests (mostly from the east coast) throw not rice, but granola. Granted, not everyone got the joke. When my friend put granola in each person's hand as the guests waited for us to emerge as husband and wife from our little rented adobe, my father-in-law ate his. But nevermind that.

When we visit my in-laws in Massachusetts, my mother-in-law is famous for asking about the food we eat in relation to our state of residence. If we've made ourselves salads for instance, she might say, "Oh, is that what people eat in California?" It's hard for her to accept that it's simply what we eat, regardless of geography.

One Christmas in Mass, Mike's cousin asked me whether we had Christmas trees in California. She was quite serious. Believe me when I tell you I thought long and hard about all the sarcastic remarks I could lob. I wanted desperately to fulfill her fantasy of California as a bizarre wasteland where all the Whos in Whoville gathered on the surfers' beach and waited fruitlessly for a tree to poke up from the sand. But I looked around at the holiday lights, the innocent faces of children violently wrestling toys from each other's hands, bulky Gap sweaters covered in snowflakes (knowing it was 70 degrees when we'd flown out of San Francisco) and I couldn't do it. "Yes," I told her with a heavy exhale, and left it at that.

And there are other times I champion the west coast lifestyle. Frequently, those times come in the produce section of some grocery store in New Jersey. It is then I realize how spoiled I am. It is there that I break down, ogling the "fresh" fruits and vegetables (most originally shipped from California) that look like they've been thrashed about in a bass-o-matic and made to endure long stretches of psychological abuse. All life deserves a proper burial. Have mercy! I would buy them all and set them free, pushing them gently from behind, egging them on to a life back in the wild, but to get them out of the store I'd have to take out a bank loan I'm not sure I qualify for. And not a pomegranate in sight! Now that's just a crime.

But while here in the west, I frequently have what I like to call "east coast moments." Even though I adore earthy and crunchy, the east coast devil on my shoulder pipes up when things go a bit too far. Like once when I was rinsing a container out in the waves at the beach and a woman asked me if I was washing my crystals. How do you respond to such a question without rolling your eyes?

Before Iraq became the charming daily barrage of news we know today, and millions of people around the world were still gathering to march for peace, I attended a performance called "Women Against the War." It was held in Santa Cruz, about an hour away from where we live and particularly known for their hippy ways and groovy open mindedness. Before I go any further, let me make it clear that I love Santa Cruz. Why, some of my best friends are from Santa Cruz. No, really, that's true. Some of them even read this blog. But since they are so open minded they will forgive my unfair characterizations of their city. Okay, so let me continue… we're talking a place where city hall has been known to give out weed. Look it up if you don't believe me.

I somehow convinced Mike to come with me to Women Against the War, which I had been misled to believe would feature a certain spoken word performer I liked very much. The tickets were 25 bucks a piece and my husband was dubious but able to be persuaded.

My east coast moment began outside the small theatre. In line were many people who presumably cared deeply about peace and the future of country. You could tell because all the men wore ponytails and colorful vests from Guatemala purchased, I'm sure, at the fair trade store. All the women were make-up-less, wore their hair short, and munched, I'm sure, organic, burritos. I was in a mood. An east coast mood. And as I struggled to get past these world citizens none of them seemed to hear my repeated "excuse me's" and wandered aimlessly into the path of my streamlined east coast stride, lacking any awareness of their immediate surroundings and the effects of their west coast lollygaging. It is relatively common that my deep need for community and social justice is temporarily eclipsed by my complete impatience toward the basic foibles of the human species. These foibles, on this day, coupled with their owners' displays of ultra-PC-ness were on my nerves. Fine! Let them be morons! Let's go freakin find our seats and save the world, I've had it! Move!

The show began. The first act was an "interpretive dance." Women in cave woman costumes squatted and spun and grunted in slow motion. We watched, slightly alarmed. It was a bit like "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" set before the wheel and definitely not as pretty. Then came a voice over that said something not far off from "In the beginning, there was woman…" Squat. Spin. Grunt. Ohmigod, what had I done? I could feel Mike's gaze to my right. In my peripheral vision I could see his mouth was agape, but I couldn't look over. Well, you know I couldn't look. If the shame of having been responsible for landing us here didn't get me, one look his way would have sent me running from the theatre shoulders quaking in violent giggles, snorting through my attempts to cover my mouth with my hands.

I began to wonder if Mike might divorce me. I began to count up all the things I could be doing if I weren't sitting there watching a cave dance for peace: petting the cats. cleaning the grease off the oven hood. going to the gynecologist. buying 50 lottery tickets with the money I would have saved.

Shit like the cave women dance just makes me want to race home, put on old Billy Joel, and smoke indoors.

There were other acts. Some were great. Some sucked. There was much patting ourselves on the back and praising the opportunity for the "whole community" to come together. (Last time I checked Santa Cruz was 40% Hispanic. Believe me when I tell you no one named Rodriguez was anywhere in the vicinity.)

Recently I had not an east coast moment, but a so very wild west coast moment, on the west coast. My husband and I were in Santa Cruz—the very same—and decided to get dinner. We remembered, kind of, where a restaurant we'd gone to once with a Santa Cruz-based friend was, and that we liked it a lot. The owners were said to be Sri Lankan and the food was a tasty Asian fusion. We found it, despite the dark and a downpour that had arrived early for our central coast rainy season. We were directed to seat ourselves and took a little table by the wall. The waitress arrived without menus and told us tonight was pre-fixe. Oh. Okay. Whatta we get? The list sounded great, so we stayed. By the time the bread arrived, we realized we'd neglected to ask the price. Probably unwise. "We'll survive," Mike said. And as the scruffy guy in flip flops wooed his date at the table behind us, her peasant skirt scraping the floor, I relaxed, figuring we'd survive indeed.

At the end of four delicious courses we couldn't finish, the waitress returned sans bill. The deal on Sundays it seemed, was that customers decided "what they thought was fair and left it on the table." (enter Scoobie Doo voice here -->) Huh?!? You aren't serious. Get out! Are we in the 21st century? In the US? In one of the most expensive places to live in the country? We decide what? We do what? … 'kay.

Well, there you have it. Slap my wrist and call me cynical. You east coasters better sell all your worldly goods, shave your heads and get on a plane. I'll be waiting with the soy milk Thai iced teas. Peace.