California: a piece of history. Mine, at least.

California, here we come. Here we come… back, just for a short while.

I have never been to San Francisco (which is where we are headed today), but I spent 3 of the best years of my life in Los Angeles. I left in July 1998, thinking I;d be back in a year, two years tops. But as it often happens, life had a few surprises in store for me, and I never went back to LA. Or California. Or the West Coast. Until now.

When I was 10, my favorite aunt went to Los Angeles. I wanted to go with her so badly! But my parents couldn’t afford the flight. And even if they had been able to, I know they would have never let me go. I’m an only child, I’m a girl, and I’m Italian. My father would have rather had his arm chopped off than let his baby girl fly with someone else to the other side of the planet.

I guess that’s when I decided: one day I’d go to LA – and one day relatively soon, after my 18th birthday. Somewhat cliché I guess, although I wasn’t going to get into Hollywood, to become an actress or anything of the sort.

It took me a few years before my dream took shape: I already knew I loved the English language – I had taken my first English course at 8, and even then I already knew most of what they were teaching. If you have a penchant for languages, translating your favorite songs can make for a surprisingly effective self-teaching method, or at least a good intro. By the time I finished middle school I had it all figured out: I would become a translator (maybe and interpreter?) and go work in LA. I’d have to wait until I finished University, but I’d make it there. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t, or that things might be more complicated than that.

Of course, when I shared my plan with anyone, I was met with a big “Yeah, right” (even from my usually supportive parents I got a “We’ll see”.) Afterall, I was from small island in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, pretty much as far as I could get from Los Angeles. I didn’t even live in a big Italian city, like Rome or Milan. I wasn’t rich or famous, nor did I know anyone rich or famous. It never occurred to them that being relatively smart and very determined might be enough. (Which in retrospect, makes me sad for them: I wonder how many dreams they had when they were younger, that never came true?)

A few years later, I was leaving LAX, on my way to the place where I was going to live. I remember thinking that it was very warm for late February, definitely much warmer than it had been in Milan, where I had lived during the previous year.

Through the following 3 1/2 years I did a lot, mostly work. It’s not that I was all work and no play, but I loved my new job so much that more often than not it felt like it was part of the “play”. But everybody needs downtime, and when I had some, I loved going out with my friends: shopping, movies, Saturday night spent at Universal Studios, jogging on the Hills; I even managed to escape to Newport a few weekends. Heck, this Sardinian beach girl even managed to go to Big Bear and sort of learn to ski one year. And of course, the best thing I ever did in LA: meet and marry my fantastic husband. But still, I thought I’d be there for good, so I didn’t do as much as I would have, had I known I’d leave after only 3 years. I didn’t go to the beach a lot. I didn’t take advantage of living in a place with several In-N-Out Burger I didn’t even go to Disneyland. Even now, looking back, I regret not taking more time to explore and enjoy being there.

I haven’t been to California in eleven years. I don’t have family there, it’s not like there’s someone I’m anxious to see again, someone who is waiting for my arrival. There isn’t. It’s not even the same city. And yet, I cannot help but feel like I am going home.