Dreaming of the West Coast
Growing up on the east coast has been quite an experience. Funny enough, I have traveled to so many places: Sicily, Australia, Hawai’i, Belize — but never did I step foot in the western part of the United States unless my layover was in Los Angeles.
It was always New York or LA/San Diego for me. I was born in New York, visited often and loved the city. However, I grew up on the southern coast, where I worked on beaches or at surf shops, being a little sunburnt dune rat with my buddies. The west coast always (and still) seduced me with the impeccable whether, apparent great waves, and good times.
Here I sit, half a year (holy fuck I just realized I’ve been here that long) into living in New York. I reside in Queens, but its still the city life I wasn’t used to. I see Freedom Tower every day on my drive to work in Williamsburg. I find my peace sitting at Domino Park, watching the waves of the East River lap on the rocks with the city sitting on the otherside, watching me back. The nostalgia I get from growing up at the beach lingers every day. I miss it.
California has infiltrated my thoughts daily, too. I recently had a dream in where something told me to go to California. The last time I had a dream like that was over a year ago in April of 2021, where I had a dream where I was advised to move to New York in a year.
I did that.
I wonder what this dream’s manifestation entails.
I’ve already looked at tickets for late winter so I could have time to save some money while simultaneously not piss my job off with yet another day or two off. Time to look at AirBNBs while I’m at it.
