Diving for the spiny thing

I'm doing fine!

I've been in California six weeks now. I don’t take myself out to dinner the way I regularly do in Berlin or while traveling. Something about it makes me anxious here. I do think a particular channel of my life can only play outside of my hometown. This is OK, and there are always trade-offs. This weekend I was filled with gratitude for the sunsets I witnessed and my ability to go for a dip—twice.

It was a perfect one

My intention with this time in California was to try to open the channel—to find art, poetry, friends, maybe even lovers—in a place I know by heart, to bring more of my newer selves into the old. I’m taking tentative steps, baby steps, while trying to be grateful for what is, which is often beautiful and heart-warming, and do as much good for myself and my family and my dearest friends.

Nicht schlecht.

Trying to observe culture shock without passing some kind of judgment—on yourself or your environment—is an interesting challenge. I’ve experienced such profound, extensive culture shock in Germany that I know it quickly when it’s happening. I’m experiencing quite a bit of it, though I’m sheepish to admit this—I don’t wanna seem holier than thou, an “expat” doing dumb expat shit.

I definitely was a little holier than thou at this new sauna in lower Manhattan last week, where I attended two Aufguss ceremonies.

I gave lots of kind but unsolicited feedback to both the sauna managers and fellow sauna-goers. German public feedback culture, despite my misgivings about it and the tantrums I throw in Berlin when it’s applied in my direction, has seeped into my being. (More on that East Coast work + family trip some other time; gotta digest.)

Had a nervous breakdown in New York

In Solana Beach, I've also provoked a few altercations—tense moments, I guess—with men at the grocery store and the gym, when I inform them that their behavior is not good etiquette.

This, and, the weight of my home, the weight of the forces that have made my family leave the city limits behind, to Ramona, a beautiful house on a dirt road, with nothing but grassland preserves beyond the eucalyptus trees. Maybe this was the real California all along, not the tiny boxes but the hawks on the fence, far from the coast, over a hill, dry.

A few weeks ago I tried to go into my elementary school to see if there was a tree still there. It used to be that you could cut through the school and use it as a kind of park on the weekends. It’s locked up tight now, and I’m not sure how or whether I can access the campus at all.

Debt beckons longingly. Every expense is absurd, a scam. When eggs and oats and basic medicine drain your bank account as rapidly as they do in Southern California, sushi nearly always seems like a merited expense. I mean my uncle’s adult diapers are $40 a month if you buy them at Walmart; $300 if the memory care facility provides them. Sushi for dinner sure why the hell not. The extra padding that I have for the first time now—which should really be going toward the establishment of some kind of retirement account—is going toward takeout.

ICE detains citizens not so far away, praying in the parking lot in the morning. Everything else doesn’t really matter, actually. In retrospective view, military states never seem inevitable. In the years I spent reading a lot about the 1930s in Germany, I read so many passages with disdain for the inactive. What is it about this military state that is uniquely successful at keeping our eyes on other things? I made an intention to go down to a protest at Otay Mesa, even spoke it out to friends. But I didn’t go.

A misplaced sadness, loneliness, grief. And also a desire to go deeper, deeper, deeper into all of it until I can get some kind of tangible quality . Clarity? A book outline? Healing? A promising new friendship? I’ll know it when I feel it.

The other night a friend and I went down the beach steps at night to look at the shore. In years of coming and staying in Solana I’d never actually gone at night. We saw lobster divers out there.

Regular guys. One of them chit chatted with us on his way back up, nothing special except the suit and the lobster bag and the big honking headlight. His wife would be disappointed: no lobster today.

Something about it terrified me. Pitch black, their shadows—thick black wetsuits, headgear—were even blacker, walking straight into the expanse. He reminded me of a creature. How could he just...go in there? And not be scared of what he'd find? Wouldn't even the lobsters be frightening?

While on a stoned shopping spree at Surf Ride on the 101 last month, I inquired about wetsuits. I've never had one and I'm curious about winter swimming. Shouldn't women like me—with appetites like me—be swimming in the cold ocean every morning?

There was some disagreement between the guys working there about the type of suit best equipped for this task. A spring suit? None available this time of year. Others thought a normal winter suit. I decided against it. My housemate has one he said I can try on, but I always worry about my boobs getting in the way and causing problems. And does it feel weighed down, claustrophobic?

Not when you’re in the water, they say. It makes floating easy.