The Eye of the Beholder

We were transfixed on Saturday by the sight of a naked woman climbing one of the rocks close to Whale's Peak in Monterey Bay. We had just returned from a fine lunch at the Post Ranch Inn in Big Sur, and were taking a short hike to walk off the delicious (and insanely priced) sandwiches we had demolished.

She appeared to be utterly unselfconscious, and a friend (collaborator / exploiter?) was shooting photographs of her against a backdrop of the pounding waves of the Pacific. We were too far away to determine exactly what the deal was. A madcap prank, decided on the spur of the moment? A photo shoot for a pinup calendar? An art photography project?

At any rate, the unexpectedness of seeing a nude woman in such a rugged landscape set me to thinking that it is time for me to upset the apple cart a little in pursuing my dreams. (Have no fear, readers, I do not intend to do this by disrobing in any public places). But I do need to shake up my job search by trying new strategies, investigating some professional education options and networking, networking, networking.

This decision comes at a good time, ahead of what I hope will be a slew of good opportunities that show up around the new year. And my renewed effort has received its first shot in the arm, with a glowing introduction from a friend to a recruiter. Regardless of whether I get an interview for that job, the introduction alone served as a three month ego-boost!

We continued our hike, and serendipitously stumbled across an Emerson quote, helpfully carved into the lookout bench at the top of the peak, which could have been written to give us some perspective on our slightly bizarre experience: "Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them". Or nature, books and naked women, I guess.

Swearing Oaths

In the shadow of Westminster Abbey last week, it fell to me to swear by Almighty God that I knew of no reason why Eric and I should not marry.

Minutes before, I had signed an Oath written in language that must have been used since the 16th century. "She maketh Oath that she believeth there is no impediment of Kindred or Alliance or of any other Suit commenced in any Court to bar or hinder the proceedings of the said intended marriage AND PRAYED a Licence to solemnize the same between the hours of eight in the forenoon and six in the afternoon in the Chapel of Magdalene College..."

So we have completed the first of several hurdles for our wedding (and one previewed in an earlier post). We knocked out some of the logistical stuff, too, while we were in Blighty, meeting with a photographer, a cakemaker, a DJ and a florist.

While there is no doubt that there is much pleasure in working out such details, they are often a distraction from the task in hand. Job hunting is proving even trickier than I had anticipated.

It is three months to the day since I moved from New York, and it seems unlikely that I will be employed before Christmas (barring a Hollywood-style fairy intervention). The very promising leads I was pursuing before I left for England have gone suspiciously quiet. Current statistics suggest that it may be at least a further three months before I command a paycheck. Judging by the experiences detailed in the Wall Street Journal blog about professionals looking for work, it also seems that any new job may not pay as well as the one I left behind - a depressing if pragmatic fact.

The irony is that during this time "between roles" I have been hiking, blogging, nurtured my stock portfolio, gone regularly to the gym, volunteered and reconnected with old friends - all things which I often failed to do as a wage slave. Yet the fact remains that much as I enjoy these activities, there is always a gnawing worry in the back of my mind that I should be doing more to pursue my dream job. And as time ticks by, with a house purchase imminent, and a wedding to pay for, the pressure to settle for something less than stellar increases.

At some point in the future, I may cave to that pressure. But with oaths on the brain, I am ready to swear this one: Despite the dire state of the economy, I believe there is a fabulous job out there with my name on it. Given the number of hours that we spend working ("married to the job"), it makes sense to me to take some time to find the right one...

Where's home?

Tumbleweed is not a feature of Scotts Valley, although I think that in the imaginations of some acquaintances, it should be. Certainly, my recent move from a global city of 8 million to a small town of 10,000 often provokes a response along the lines of my hairdresser's recent comment, "That's quite a change". The implication appears to be that I may be missing out, culturally bereft or living in something of a one horse town. The unkind smirks of a few suggest that they think I may have downgraded.

With two full months under my belt, I now feel empowered to rebut the charge. It's true that Scotts Valley, on its own, is unlikely to feature in regularly published studies comparing global cities. But it is a mistake to think of the town in isolation from the rest of the Bay Area, which has so far provided me with a trip to the Symphony (I never did that in New York - although of course it was available), a DJ'd Hallowe'en costume party at SF Moma (you haven't lived until you've seen a human representation of the H1N1 virus standing next to a Warhol) and, critically, an expedition to San Jose's Shark Tank to see Disney's Princesses on Ice (O.K that one was really for the benefit of our 7 year old niece, but it was great, and if you have a young princess in the family, and the show is in the area, highly recommended).

I've also hiked in the woods, in the mountains and by the ocean, eaten fabulous ice cream at Santa Cruz's 50 year old staple, Marianne's and the latest back to the land food at the Mission district's Chez Spencer. So pity me not, ye doubters. Life here or there is not better or worse, it is just different.

One of the real pleasures of living outside the big city (which here, is San Francisco), is the ability to make a weekend trip out of visiting. Our night at the museum (the aforementioned Hallowe'en event) was really just one part of a Friday and Saturday enjoying the city. We got to stay in a boutique hotel (the Hotel Vertigo, appropriately named after the Hitchcock movie), hit a great restaurant, a party in a museum and then lunch the following day in one of San Francisco's classic spaces, the Garden Court at the Palace Hotel.

In due course, when I return to New York, I look forward to being a tourist in the city I called home for nearly nine years, mainly because I shall at last have an excuse to stay in one of the fabulous trendy hotels which spring up in the most unlikely places. Currently, I have my sights set on The Standard, although I fear that it may have moved out of our budget range by the time we come back.

It looks hopeful that next month, we may move into a new home in Capitola (still in Santa Cruz County, California), and next weekend, we are heading over to the UK, and I shall endeavor to send a post from London, which is my original home town.

The reality is, of course, that home is wherever you make it. And I now characterize myself as a Londoner, a New Yorker and a Santa Cruzer (Cruiser?!), depending on what suits at the time.