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.