Every time I thought about writing this post, before I left the USA, in my head, it always started with “the Bay Area ain’t all that”. I decided to leave writing it aside for a while after moving and I think I did the right thing because now, I still think that the Bay Area ain’t all that but there is something quite fascinating about the elusive identity of the USA that I want to try to do justice to.
As a European (and a small country European at that) – despite my living abroad, despite my traveling, despite my frequent visits to the USA – I always associate the country with whatever I’ve seen on the screen. The American cultural production (or hegemony) is so strong that there is no escape in my head from the teenagers in convertibles, the fire hydrants in the corner, the sprawling – unending – unforgiving distances, the 4th of July celebrations. It was quite a surprise to me to discover that this exact prism shaped a lot of my first (and second) impressions of the Bay. To a large extent I saw what I expected to see, until, certain that I had escaped the country’s clutches and thus relaxed, America yanked me back, one evening in New York and demanded that I reconsider.
It’s not a secret that my employer (well, previous employer now) moved me around from London to Dubai and then to Mountain View, CA – in an exercise in patience, learning and sheer fucking mind blowing opportunity. And to be perfectly honest, anyone who works for a West Coast company should absolutely take the chance – if given – to work at headquarters even for a little while. The rhythm of the place is important as well as the random connections, not to mention how easier my professional life became, at least in terms of being in the same timezone as the decision makers and being able to get things done quickly.
There is intense beauty in the Bay, microclimates that are insane (start off in a T-shirt from San Jose, end up needing a winter jacket in San Fransisco) and an infuriating combination of naiveté (hence all the innovation) and insularity (hence the West Coast based view of the world). I had expected the immigrant community to have created the brand of multiculturalism that I was accustomed to in London and Dubai but it turns out that the Bay culture is so strong, so pervasive, so inescapable that we were all just tech workers, in a place where life happened after the rest of the world had lived their lives and gone to bed.
There was of course nature and traditions and the spawn asking me why we did not celebrate the Day of the Dead (we do, I said, at least the Pontian Greeks do and we call it “tafia” and we go visit the graves). There were American breakfasts with huge portions to enjoy on a Saturday and a stroll through the farmers’ market after. There was the Pacific, the sheer terror of the Pacific, which had no end nor peace in my eyes, accustomed as I am to the blue embrace of the Aegean – with a coast always visible somewhere in the distance. Nowhere have I felt more acutely how far from anywhere else the USA really is than when standing in front of the Pacific Ocean. There were celebrations, new and old friends who invited us over, shared tidbits of information, took care of us and celebrated things with us; Thanksgiving, Philip’s birthday, Christmas.
I went to Salt Lake City, to Washington DC (which you should visit if you want to see how nation building happens through architecture in modern times), to New York. I was fascinated, walked miles and miles in hot and humid streets and found places I had read about and stories of communities thriving or disappearing with a whimper in this vast place, where one State can be dramatically different than the other. This may be a country that I’m not convinced knows exactly what it is but has enough space for different groups to decide on a different definition and then shape their reality accordingly. In the end, what is Salt Lake city if not an example of that exact process?
“This is the only country in the world,” said Wednesday, into the stillness, “that worries about what it is.”
“What?”
“The rest of them know what they are. No one ever needs to go searching for the heart of Norway. Or looks for the soul of Mozambique. They know what they are.”― Neil Gaiman, American Gods
The thing that really made my life difficult in the Bay through was the sheer fucking distance from anywhere else. I stretched the cord connecting me to my sister, to my past, to the cities that tell me who I am (Athens and London, you didn’t have to ask) but the cord complained daily and I found myself on a plane constantly, building in one part of the world and yearning for another. I fought – like I do – against the reality of my age – 45 being a bit too old to build a new life so far away from my people and the lands that give me an immense sense of power.
With the spawn ready to go to primary school and Antonis’ job calling him back to London I started interviewing with a sense of dread. As the boys left for Europe, I stayed in the Bay, driving around, eating food and returning to a quiet house, simply being for a while, wondering what the hell I did with my time before I was a wife and a mother. I spent a frantic, if a bit aimless, July in Greece before the (second) most exciting job offer I’ve ever received came through and I entered the logistical nightmare of moving our whole lives back to London.
I returned to the USA at the end of August – a better safe than sorry course of action for immigration visa purposes, these being peculiar days in that respect. I walked around New York, saw a surprising number of friends and stood awestruck in front of a number of paintings at MOMA. I wore red and white quite a lot – which might not sound significant but now that I think about it, it was. I went to a concert. I giggled in the street like a girl and I walked around Central Park on a sunny day.
And exactly in that week – specifically in that week – the United States achieved what it hadn’t during the past 1 year, 4 months and 10 days. It instilled in me a burning desire to return and walk around New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Austin and Seattle – to have the place explained to me again and again, to have a last drink at a random dive bar around the corner, to watch the waves, to find a keepsake in my suitcase, to wear red and white and to know, finally, irrefutably, devastatingly, that all the places I’ve lived in keep leaving a mark. Thank fuck.
