I’ve often wondered why the saying, “The West Coast is the best coast.”
I remember going to Washington, DC, our capital, not the state where I was born. I was young and madly in love: he, my soul mate and soon-to-be lover, husband, and always-best friend. We discovered we both loved Enya, the artist, and bought all the CDs we could find for our future home together. I saw Les Miserables for the first time, and all these things were magical and new to me. I could love the East Coast were it not for the parking.
On my second trip, I was still young and in love with what I imagined life to be when married. Not so. Was I in love? Yes. Was it working? No. But I would make it work. That’s also when I found laws and politics happen in restaurants more than inside the walls of the capital. Decisions and votes are being made, and promises are being exchanged only one table over in a Chinese restaurant. The food was expensive but not exceptional. But that’s when I saw my first firefly on a sunsetless shore.
On my third trip, I saw all the monuments and museums, and all things were new once again because I was with my daughter, Emma. We were two broken souls then, me trying to make up for the things stolen in her life and her holding on to hope for no reason at all. It was also on that trip I realized there was no one of color in our capital building making laws to govern all. And the women acted just like the men. But African Americans were our capital police, ensuring our safety as we toured.
I went to Florida for a conference once, only to be told not to step on the grass; it was to be looked at but not walked on because of what lurks. I asked who mows the lawns, and they told me “no one” does. But I knew someone did because the grass was short, and then I realized those who do are hired to do what the “no one” will do. I wondered if babies and children felt the tickle of grass between their toes like I did growing up on the West Coast.
Now, I haven’t seen all of the East Coast. I’ve never been to New York City, Boston, Maine or Vermont. So I don’t have a definitive answer about it. But I’ve been all over the West Coast from Bellingham to San Diego.
Here on the West Coast of Northern California, we are filled with diversity and enjoy putting away our business clothes for an evening walk on the boardwalk and dinner in our flip-flops. And closer to home, here in Lake County, we traded lawns for vineyards, oaks, and pines. Here, we have sunsets on the shoreline while sipping on fine wine instead of sunrises. We have stars that blanket the sky instead of fireflies. And maybe that’s enough reason to say the West Coast is the Best Coast.