Finding Love in California

California has always been an ideal for me. Since I was old enough to understand that there existed a larger world than my family, home and school, I'd heard that it was wonderful; that the weather there was perfect; that there was almost too much in the way of recreation. It had a reputation as a "fast" place, the location of Hollywood and the seat of much wealth and luxury. There was the added romance of recent social and ethnic tensions: student riots, race riots, slums and gangs, East LA. It had a historical significance to me as it was initially "colonized" by strict Catholic Spanish missionaries, then later built up by gold rushers and capitalists, and in this century the destination of many service members on their way to fight in the Pacific, Korea, and Viet Nam. There was a power in the word "California" that somehow reconciled the disparate ideas of social liberalism, military towns (good and bad), rampant capitalism, racial tensions, incredible wealth, and raw physical beauty. It called to me in my youth, whispering of adventure, opportunity, and glamour. I wanted to live there, at least for a little while. I wanted to experience California.

Thanks to the military, I received that opportunity. In 2007 I received orders to a training squadron based out of San Diego, California. Even better, my follow-on orders would be to a fleet squadron based in the same place. I was looking at spending four years of my youth in what general regard and my own fantasy painted as a paradise. That November I set out for my first real road trip, the three-day drive from Pensacola to San Diego and the welcome next installment in this military adventure.

I enjoyed the drive very much. Hours on the road were something new and fairly exciting, as were the dingy motels in which I nervously slept each night. My excited eyes welcomed the sights of Louisiana bayous, Texas oil fields (and the posted 80-mile-per-hour speed limits there), and the barren desert mountains of New Mexico, Arizona, and California. By a fortuitous coincidence, when I reached the suburbs of San Diego on the third day of my trip I found myself driving up the "Semper Fi" highway along the east side of Miramar while F/A-18s flew into land over head. Never in a long career of subconscious attempts to imitate this movie have I ever felt more like a character in Top Gun. That coupled with the confluence of ocean, hills, greenery and desert made me believe I had finally arrived in Paradise. Hello Southern California!

Over the years I've lived here, I've experienced quite a bit of the area. My flying has taken me over San Francisco, the California coast, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, to Phoenix, Scottsdale, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and Fresno in the central valley. I have driven California Highway 1 down the coast. I have spent lazy days watching surfers compete in the crowded break off San Diego beaches, run beneath rugged cliffs that line the coast under Torrey Pines golf course, sailed the Gulf of Santa Catalina, walked the trails of the coastal mountains, eaten plenty of "healthy" food that happens to be organic or vegan, and explored the paradoxical array of night-clubs, dive-bars, and exclusive restaurants that make up (seemingly) the lion share of California entertainment. I've certainly made some good friends here and enjoyed my time immensely. And yet In the months after I returned from a recent long deployment to the Far East, I discovered myself surprisingly ambivalent toward this place--perhaps even eager to leave.

Like anywhere else in the world, California has it's goods and bads. Perhaps unusually, there are few "natural" bad things about it - no hurricanes, difficult winters, chance of flooding, or (unless you live in the Bay Area) even really earthquakes. The negatives about California are all artificial, imposed by the people who live there. So while the land is rugged and pretty, even stunning, I found it hard to reconcile myself to the jaded nature of society here. Except for little enclaves here and there (like my squadron or my church) there is a glaring dearth of warmth and friendliness to be found in the people I meet. They are all very comely, certainly, but they seem vaguely overdressed and fragile, as if they are more concerned with looking "correct" than looking "nice" or "respectable." They are, on the surface, very nice - they say "please" and "thank you," but yet manage to make those phrases sound both rude and contemptuous. They are appallingly rude to waiters and store clerks. Their fun seems forced, as if the joy they experience is carefully controlled to conform with some standard, and therefore doesn't quite come from their hearts. It seems sad that a people can spend so much time worrying about how they look or act, and so much more time actively making themselves a certain way, and yet get so little enjoyment out of it. It's like they've all resigned themselves to the fact that they're as happy as they'll ever be in their shallow unambitious world of luxury.

Though I had a close group of friends with whom I shared many interests (foremost being our Catholicism, shared military experiences, and our love of college football in general and Notre Dame football specifically), by the summer of 2008 it was obvious that separation was inevitable. Some friends were heading out on deployments or even moving duty stations altogether. Others were entering the kind of serious relationships that occur after college and a certain amount of time living alone as a young professional. Truth be told I envied the latter. Between the slowly changing dynamics of my relationships in San Diego and the social character of California itself I was growing weary of a "single life." It is certainly exciting to be young and independent, but eventually I found that bars, restaurants, and beaches look mostly the same the world over and I yearned for something less transitory in my life and relationships. I was tired the constant change, no matter how slowly it was occurring, and I wanted to hold on to something more stable. I was in fact, and probably subconsciously, looking exactly for the kinds of serious relationships into which so many of my friends were entering. This consideration made me glad to deploy to Japan (which I did in the fall of 2008), because it was a chance to pare down my life and occupy myself with more immediate tasks--it was a chance to push a growing loneliness away.

Deployment was in many ways a struggle. I have only tasted the barest sip of the bitter loneliness felt by deployed service members who leave loved ones behind, for as I was still independent the solitary hours were to some degree a familiar experience. But the time away from home, immersed as I was in a difficult job and forced to spend time with (and get along with) tough-minded and equally independent squadron mates, was more a blessing. There is something redemptive and cleansing about suffering, a chance to forget old problems for new and take satisfaction in solving the problems and surviving the difficult times. And there was certainly plenty of fun to be had flying in new parts of the world and enjoying the unique freedom and carelessness that attends membership in a tight group of comrades sent to a new and exciting place. I returned home in March 2009 eager to re-engage California and make the most of my remaining time there. I vaguely intended to make existing friendships stronger with the knowledge that as they developed new relationships of their own, "stronger" wasn't going to necessarily mean "more available."

Initially, to my disappointment, I seemed to fall back into exactly the same incomplete life I had left seven months prior. In my long absence, new priorities had developed for my friends--some were newly engaged, others were newly married, still more had other friends besides. Nobody abandoned me, but there was nevertheless even less room in my old--and now shrinking--circle for me. So life goes: people grow and develop and change. There was no less love or friendship than before, just less availability. And I knew that as a good friend I needed to support my various friends' new changes. So I began insidiously accepting a smaller life than I wanted. I accepted more time alone and a smaller group of friends. And though I tried to remain cheerful, the melancholy of my situation made much more apparent the jaded and shallow character of California. It was a place of harsh light and dust, which I shut out by retreating into my parish "Young Adult" group, into my largely unfurnished apartment, and into books.

Then one summer week changed all this. Three events occurred which by themselves were hardly out of the ordinary, but which together began a process of growing appreciation and happiness. First, coincident with the weekend of July fourth, I was able to spend a day with my college and Pensacola room-mate. Though the substance of our encounters was noteworthy--one day we went sailing and followed it with a Cajun crawfish boil at his brother's house, the next we tied one on cathartically and royally in San Diego--I chiefly remember it as a moment recalling the great joy of our lives back in college and flight school. Those were the best years of my life at the time: carefree, young, healthy enough to often indulge in the kinds of pass-times that might otherwise result in sore-ness, injury, or hangover, and above all in the company of good friends.

Second, I spend the last part of that holiday weekend the beach with and as the guest of more old college friends. These were a newlywed couple, neither of whom I knew well at school (despite sharing their major and participating with them in ROTC), but with whom I nevertheless had much in common. Their hospitality, kindness, and cheer stunned me. We discussed books and life, their soon-to-be-born son, and enjoyed (again) the kind of company that had so recently been slipping away from me.

Third (and most significantly), I was contacted by a girl I knew from Notre Dame regarding something I wrote on the internet. Though of course I responded well to the compliments therein, I think I was more interested in the fresh and innocent character of the note. This connection was unfreighted with an impending departure, a common and competitive job, or a connection propped up at all by a common religion. There was no need for presence or determined and defensive courtesy, and I amid our far-reaching conversations I confided in her my spiritual malaise in California, aware that she had lived here after college but moved away after several years. The correspondence that developed between us was remarkable for it's fresh and sincere character, and as we traded stories and perspectives I began to see what initially brought her out to California, and learned that she was considering coming back after several years living in her hometown of Chicago. That was an idea that made California seem much more attractive as a place to live.

And in the glow of such company I started looking at California in a new light. My mind was suddenly filled with external ideas, jokes, and interests. It felt like my life was expanding again, that it was exciting and had a place here. I don't mean to suggest I thought my life was a dead end before; rather I had given up on much good ever happening in California. The "jaded and shallow" character certain Californians now seemed trivial and amusing. I realized anew how much there was to enjoy--between the company, the beach volleyball, the football, the cool ocean, and the sunlight I felt sudden sympathy with all those young men who passed through here during World War II, fell in love, and came back to settle after the war. It felt like paradise. The entire nature of the place is optimistic at heart: for the missionaries it was a place to found a new and holier society; for the gold rushers it was a place to make a fortune, for later settlers it was a place to be successful agriculturally in the abundant natural sunlight; for more recent refugees from failing economies, stifling cultures, and difficult winters of parts east it is simply a place to remake their life in a happier mold. There is an innocent appreciation common to such pilgrims, a profound enjoyment of California's beauties and opportunities that is rooted in their knowing full well the reason came her in the first place.

California seduces with beautiful scenery and beautiful people, and that may be in fact the true soul of the place anymore; and yet co-existing alongside it are good people both eager to live a happy life and ready to fully enjoy the weather, recreation, scenery, and simple unfettered lifestyle. Certainly, what previously hindered my enjoyment of California was a combination of my own pain at watching a close group of friends inevitably separate as they moved on with life and career and the conspicuous glitz and shallow ambition so obvious in California "society." Too rarely did I ignore those things enough to appreciate the good people and amazing opportunities for happiness here. I think I needed to be able to share this place and it's wonders with those good people--namely my friends, old and new.

I have written before of the importance of place. I have always been affected by places, by their beauty and by their romantic ugliness, but those are surface attributes. What I really notice, I believe, is the character of the place. That may be inspired by characteristics of the place itself, but it resides in and comes from the inhabitants. California is chiefly a place of dreams: beautiful dreams, nightmarish dreams, broken dreams, all kinds of dreams. People here are generally looking for something, but they have a kind of sojourning mindset--a cheerful acceptance of difficulty and an eager anticipation of their goal. They have hope. I temporarily lost that hope, but found it again during that providential summer week. As life grows and changes, new friends and comrades will step in to fill the void left by the departure or separation of the old, who will still be available (though not perhaps as they were before) but with no less friendship nonetheless. Most importantly I found a real love, something that has the potential to be greater than the closest friendship or the most bracing comrades. For the correspondence that began in late June grew into a long-distance date to Boston, and finally a real, committed, and exciting relationship. There is a great hope in that--a hope implicit in the presence of romantic love--that at least this relationship may not be transitory; that it might not be marked by inevitable separation but by a chance to do the growing and changing with a partner.

As I drove on to base today I watched the sun suddenly rise over the scrub hills of east Miramar, smite the buildings and my mirror, and momentarily blind me. It seemed to me that this sunrise, beautiful and gleaming golden between the soft layers of autumn clouds over the coastland, was the essence of California. It contained the hope of sunshine and optimism, the very hope that originally drew me and countless others. It was a reminder--though I scarce needed it--that finally, after two years of looking, I had found an ideal here in this land of dreams. I found what I sought. I found the hope of lasting happiness.