Escaping Boston ... Moving to Sunny Alameda

I’ve always considered myself a native of California even though I was born in the Midwest. I spent 25 years living in the OC before it became “the OC.” It sounds corny, but even though I lived “down south” I truly did leave my heart in the Bay Area. I would try to get up to you guys at least three times a year driving the coast road and trying not to die when part of the highway fell into the Pacific. It was always worth the threat of death. I dreamed of the day I’d pack up and move up north — until my life took a turn to the East.

Seventeen years ago, I left California and moved to Boston. I never imagined that kind of a change, but because I was in love it was easy for me to make. I had never been to Boston before and had never heard the phrase “meanest city in the US." Whoever coined the phrase either spent a lot of time here or realized it immediately and moved on.

For you few who might be big fans of Boston this might not be the blog for you. Here’s my philosophy on the city: if you love it, enjoy it and please stay put. For the rest of us, the parole board will be meeting soon.

We live seven miles from downtown Boston in a town that is filled with banks and funeral homes. I can count four each within walking distance. As you get older it has a tendency to play with one’s psyche. You save your money so you can have a grand funeral. There are some lovely people here; our neighbor across the street, for one. She’s in her 70s and is a poster child for a hearty New Englander. But when it comes to life-long residents, she’s the exception. Meeting and making friends here is tough as Boston in winter.

Even though we’ve lived on our tiny dead-end street for seven years, we’ve never been invited to neighborhood gatherings. To be fair, one neighbor did ring our doorbell to let us know that he was hosting an open house — and would we mind if his guests parked in our driveway? And no, he did not say we were welcome to stop by.  We’re a gay couple, and that seems to matter to them.

Massachusetts may be ahead of its time on marriage equality, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t deep pockets of prejudice in certain areas. Life’s just that way, east, west or in the middle. We had no idea we were buying a home in one of those pockets, though, until a new neighbor leaned over our fence and whispered to my wife, “you girls are so courageous, holding hands in public! Good for you for not hiding.” Good to know we’re allowed to hold hands on our own back porch, in the relative privacy of our backyard. We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but we took the hand-holding in the house.

I just shake my head when I see something on TV showing the sweeping panorama of Boston with the sailboats on the Charles River and the skyline in the background. Beautiful, yes, but mostly inaccessible if you have a disability, which I do. Disgraceful curb cuts make having a disability here a hardship. Finding an accessible parking space without it being directly involved with oncoming traffic or occupied by someone who isn’t is an everyday experience. The ADA elevator in the brand new post office doesn’t work and they have no intention of fixing it. Some PR person somewhere is earning their money and probably living in New York.

The roads (and parking lots) are filled with potholes and crazy-ass drivers who all need to go to anger management.

My wife has none of the characteristics of the above mentioned crazies, despite being a native Bostonian. I know she is embarrassed by some of the actions she has seen me witness. I’ve literally had people walk around me when I fell in a parking lot when my shopping cart tipped over in a pothole.

We took a vacation to the Bay Area about six years ago. It was her first time there and of course she didn’t want to leave. I remember her asking me, “You are so comfortable driving here even with all of the traffic, busy interchanges, and congestion. Why are you so calm here and not in Boston?” There is an answer to her question: “I trust these guys. They’re not out to kill me.”

When I first came to California I was 19 and starry-eyed, ready to take on the world. For the next quarter-century I did just that, and was comfortable, happy, and at peace. Now, I’m an old pioneer, ready to come home. A little worse for wear, worn down by long winters and cold receptions, but still strong, still in love, and loved in return. The timing couldn’t be better. I dedicate this blog to my brother, Dave, who got to follow his dream for five years before being struck down by cancer last year.

 I’d like this blog to chronicle my journey from the east coast to the west. I’ve lived in the OC, worked in L.A., and dreamed in the Bay Area. Of all the beautiful places I could choose as my last, best place to live, it seems Alameda has chosen me. It’s impossible to say why, but I know I’ll be warm here, and welcomed.