Thinking of Leaving San Diego
Maybe it was after I’d dropped a stupid yet unavoidable amount of money at the grocery store; or maybe it was after another mass shooting; or maybe some other kind of news that made me stare at my feet, but about early on last summer I turned to my husband, S, and said, “I think we have to leave San Diego.”
By late summer our eyes were fixed on the ever-likely reality that He Who Shall Not Be Named (HWSNBN) would be re-elected.
The question was where would we move to? We briefly toyed with Kansas City—Missouri, not Kansas. I liked the idea of living somewhere with a history of jazz and that, like San Diego, also had a public French immersion school for our kids who were already in a French immersion school. It would have been a shame for them (but especially our eldest) to have to give up the hard work they’d put in to learning French.
Kansas City seemed like an obvious solution. I tried to picture us living in a Victorian house with a raised porch, but couldn’t. And also, it was so flat. I looked at Cowles Mountain overlooking my San Diego neighborhood and my heart lurched at the thought of a flat, never-ending expanse of snow. Nope. Kansas City was struck off our list.
We looked at moving to the UK. The climate would be a shock, coming from southern California, but arguably better for my little trio of redheads; and with four out of five of us UK passport holders, immigration should be straightforward. I reached out to school friends to get their take on where we could live. South London? Bath? West Sussex? A small town in Buckinghamshire near where my mother grew up? None really grabbed me, so I kept searching. While I could imagine myself curled up with a book and a cup of tea in the bay window of a different sort of Victorian house—one made cosy with carpets and radiators—it was probably my brain riffing on childhood memories.
Right before HWSNMN won (?) the election my sister in southern Spain gave birth to her first child. I flew to Málaga when my niece was 12 days old, laden with two suitcases stuffed with hand-me-downs. This is how I can be a hands-on aunt. I watched my sister and her husband coo at the tiny clothes and Baby Bjorn bouncer and longed to be part of this new life.
Still, Spain never occurred to me as a place to move to. Where would we live? What would my husband, the primary breadwinner, do for work? I speak Spanish, but he and our kids do not.
Halfway through my trip, my brother, Theo, travelled from Madrid to meet our niece. He came down on the AVE, Spain’s excellent high-speed train that takes you from Madrid to Málaga in 2.5 hours. A week later, it was time to drop him back to the Málaga train station. I had an idea and turned to our mum.
“You’re always going on about what a nice city Málaga is. When we take Theo to the train, could we go a bit early? I’d love to see it.”
“Ooh!” chimed in Theo, “Yeah, let’s do that. Málaga is fabulous!”
I still wasn’t considering a move Spain though.
Theo, our mum, and I wandered through the Centro Histórico, a pedestrian area filled with Xmas street lights. I was dazzled by the city’s vibrance and the good mood of the people gearing up for the holidays. For the first time, I saw Europe through American eyes, and understood why people from the US are enchanted by cobblestones and the rundown charm of centuries-old buildings.
To my surprise, I realised I was kind of like an American in Europe. Except, I’m not American—I’m a US citizen. (There’s a difference!)
The dreams of retiring to Europe one day that I had fantasised about loomed large. I wanted to live near my family, from whom I’d live apart for nearly 20 years. I wanted to have a hand in raising my niece. I heard my late father’s voice ringing in my head, “We must all see each other more often.”
After a couple of weeks in Málaga province, it was time for me to fly home. I cried as I kissed my niece goodbye, and cried again on the flight to London. I was quiet, but a friendly stranger across the aisle two rows in front of me reached out her hand to ask if I was okay. I smiled through my tears and nodded, even though I wasn’t. Even though I had three gorgeous kiddos of my own I was flying home to. But somewhere there, in the 20-odd hours between saying goodbye to my niece and greeting my children, something must have been percolating…
