Who moved my cheese?

     It's terrible, this taste of hope with a splash of fear, like a cocktail mixed by an amateur.  This is utter dread of the shiny bright future.

     One incredible weekend spent at an uneventful and charming Santa Cruz bungalow housing a gay couple, dark artwork, and three darling cats has bored itself into our hearts, and I can feel changes bleeding through my skin already.

     We watched sea lions and the crowded sandy beach next to the famous boardwalk (that we didn't bother with,) then were confused by redwood forests on mountains just minutes away.  What is this place, I thought, that combines my two favorite things about the Golden State literally within hiking distance from each other?  We experienced the strange Mystery Spot, surrounded by tall redwoods, then made our way to the pier for salmon and chowder.

     It's home, says Scott over Pad Thai and diet Coke.  It's a little town with a big city feel, or vice versa.  All you could ever want to see or be a part of is at your fingertips.  I like going to visit, but I am always eager to come back, he tells us.  I understand in a way I'd like to deny.  The San Joaquin Valley is good in it's soiled and fruitful way; it is our origin, where our blood flows from, where family and history tie us to the place with a bind that we will never resent.  We love summer-warm peaches and dusty old traditions, and even a way of life that runs as consistently as the changing of the seasons.  Home but not home, where we long to be comfortable being who we know we really are, or being who we want to become.  Our way of thinking doesn't quite mesh with Fresno's.

     My new uncle took us downtown where I discovered a pleasing mix of pretentious and dumpy, artistic, trendy, vintage, and liberal.  Street performance present but kept to an unobtrusive minimum, and a creative mix of interests in shop doorways made me feel as though I would always have something to satisfy creative hunger or necessity.  Los Gatos reeked of perfumed desperate housewives and sweet farmers' markets, the corner store dripped with Mexican culture, the pier spotted with hippies, and the average neighborhood street boasted of understated vintage architecture.  And people of different lifestyles and views mingled together without a clue.  Everyone is just real.

     There's all kinds here, Phil says as we wait in the lobby of a hot Mexican restaraunt that serves amazing sopas.  It doesn't really matter what you like, you fit in.  This is apparent to me with minimal observation.

     At night the fog rolls in and chills away the heat of the day and I sleep well, even in a double-sized bed with a hot body pressing against me.

     And then there's the opportunity.  Will my beautiful talented husband only go so far in Fresno?  Will his designs become stagnant and standard with only the agriculture industry to market to?  How much will graphic design flourish here?  Will these last strenuous several years of blossoming into a skilled artist mean nothing after all when he has to take an office job to pay rent?  Santa Cruz county isn't so restricted, far more creative and in need, minutes away from San Jose and an hour from Frisco, where he could probably live off of freelancing if not designing for a firm, and eventually become an art director on a salary.  I'll go where he needs to go, and he won't go anywhere unless I, too, desire to go.

     I could substitue teach for awhile until I find my niche.  I only need the county credential and fingerprints.  It would be far superior to the industry I have fallen into here.

     But like a flood it comes and I remember my mother's softening face and the way we have begun to enjoy each other as women; I recall my dad's mellowing attitude and how we have managed to say the things we never could and laugh together, often.  I see my sister- my most cherished friend- having her long-awaited first child, and my absence in their lives leaves a giant blank, like white negative space in an almost-perfect masterpiece.  They are my life, my family-- the ones who have given me everything and asked nothing.  I want to be the perfect auntie, give my parents something in return, build a life where they can see that I am respecting these gifts they give me.  These are the reasons I don't want to go.

     Phil's sister, Lisa, hands me information on low-income housing aid as we watch Chappel's Show in her downstairs apartment that is more spacious than ours.  She tells us that almost everyone has assistance, you can even get an ocean view for under $1000 a month.  About all apartments and homes for rent accept HUD or some form of assistance.  "Low-income" translates to "not rich" here, and there isn't the stigma surrounding it that one would find in Fresno: it is simply how the county lends its residents a hand.

     We could re-locate.  It's a real possibility. We were your age when we moved, Scott tells us, and we had nothing, not even a bed.  You already have family here.  Scott makes me happy with his comfortable honest way, and I smile at the thought of going on a whim to watch his band play at a local venue, then returning home to an apartment that is a bike-ride from the ocean.  

     It's too real.  The contentment on my husband's face and the suspicion that I, too, would be more content in Santa Cruz, with it's abundant platter of all of the delectibles that I've ever wanted to taste, indicate to me that we need to make a decision.  We have one semester before life begins.

     I hate change.  I am so uncomfortable where I should be thrilled.  I don't really know how to deal with this decision.