The FedEx race car on the way to the baggage claim has a flat tire and it’s flanked by advertisements for VCU, all of which appear untrustworthy with their calculated spectrum of skin tones and their purposeful peppering of piercings. We are inclusive and artsy, they shout, but we aren’t sure how we feel about you.
I’m not sure how I feel either. I felt a kinship with Richmond for a long time. That was after I’d done my time rebelling against it, rejecting it, wanting anything other than it. When I opened my business I felt a certain amount of sorrow about being tied to this place but I accepted it. We have the mountains and the beach and a variety of seasons, I said. We are a real city that feels like a small town.
On the eve of Thanksgiving 2018, I sat in the backyard of my beautiful, historic Ginter Park home, and felt the familiar dread of 30-some Richmond falls. Seasonal Affective Disorder, personal trauma, and a Leo’s need for sun has crafted a cool-month cocktail that goes down like temporary death. It occurred to me then that I could be somewhere else.
The San Diego airport is large and airy. There are hanging lights on the ceilings that dim and brighten to the tune of swimmers making their way through waves. Every six feet a covid-area sticker recommends you stay one surfboard’s length away from your neighbor.
When I relocated last year I thought I’d be jet setting back and forth across the country every month or so. I imagined myself living in both places, sort of like how, when I got pregnant with my first child, I assumed I’d be able to work full time and be a stay at home mom all at once. I have a rich history of expecting too much from myself. I have a habit of trying to do it all.
I love the air in San Diego and the energy. I love its architecture and its palm trees, especially those that line the airport. In Richmond, I love people. I think I’m finally done romanticizing a bicoastal lifestyle but I’ll never stop strengthening friendships with the people who matter most.
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