My last view of the California coast is hazy and golden. The plane swings out over the ocean on its turn toward the east. Los Angeles, Malibu. The Channel Islands in the distance. Sun in my face, so I close my eyes, but don't turn my head away. The coast is beneath me, it is rapidly receding behind me.
A friend here in Basel asked me if I was going to be like James Joyce and write about, long for, mythologize my home while living in self-induced exile in another country my whole life. I think I shrugged noncommittally. (Wait for the blog entries to use more and more of my own special language.) Life in California remains unfinished for me. More specifically, my life in California, the one that I left, still feels the same as it did when I left, even though all kinds of things have changed. Every trip back starts with several days of disorientation. It makes it difficult to be clear about my nostalgia. Does seeing video of LA traffic make me homesick because I miss sitting in traffic? Seems more likely that sitting in traffic in LA was part of who I was as a person. Driving up to Santa Barbara, right after I got off the plane from Europe, I really felt like
myself. So we can establish that I spent a lot of time in a car. But then, on my way up to the Bay Area, I was sick of driving by the time I got to King City (I know, only halfway there), which proves that I have changed, after all. The "I" is not a static thing. Or, at least, not entirely.
How was the trip, anyway? Good, short, intense. Half the time the weather was incredible, warm and sunny, but I'd still say this trip was Cold. Why is it always cold inside? You think people would have done something about it by now. First there was the Codex Bookfair: a serious 4 days of sitting at a table explaining my Swiss friends' books, and my own, to students, collectors, and other artists. Also some looking around at other people's books, though not much; it was busy. I bought one book (from the table across the aisle from mine) and traded for two others. A former student from the Academy came and helped me out for two days, and damned if she didn't sell as many books as I did. I had a feeling the twinkle in her cute Brazilian eye would move the unsuspecting fair attendees to reach for their wallets. Then there was the talk I gave, about the Swiss books; the class I taught at the Center for the Book; and then the three days of hanging out before I got on the early BART train to the airport and flew back down to LA. My very nice friend skipped going to work for the morning so she could drive me to get Japanese food before putting me on my plane to Basel.
Basel, now, is cold, in the 30s, raining. I've spent a few days getting organized in my new flat, and I really like it (not least because the heating works so well). It feels excellent to play the bass again, that is a large part of the "I" and it is a part I'm enjoying. I've only got a few more days here before I join an orchestra on a little tour, two weeks on the road, concerts in Hong Kong, Vienna, Dijon. I'm lucky to be able to do these things.
On my east-bound plane, into the darkening sky, I think of looking out over the City from the windy top of San Bruno Mountain, of drinking wine, of walking all over Berkeley. Eating, eating out all the time, Ethiopian food, vegan Mexican, non-vegan Mexican, Vietnamese, Chinese, sushi, sandwiches, soups, salads, beautiful California food. Looking around, drinking beer, doing things. There are so many things. My airplane window is dirty, or fogged up, or both. And behind me, my coast very nearly glows.
