Most of my time this morning was spent elbow-deep in tissues and trying to sneak the off-limit medication from the medicine cabinet. I know what you're thinking: "off-limit medication"? Well, okay, it's not so much "off-limits" as it is that my mom believes that all I need to do is drink water with this white dissolving tablet thing twice a day and my flu will be as good as gone in no time. My mom's one of those "let's let nature handle it instead of doing the normal and practical thing" kind of people, so, right now, she's kind of refusing to give me any other medicine, so I've been forced to fend for myself. Anyway.
The point of today's post is to tell you, whoever you are, about my more-than-likely misguided love of California. I went to Los Angeles and San Francisco this time last year, in between jetting from New York and to Washington DC, but I only spent about three or four days in either city which is nowhere near enough time to truly get to know a place. Nevertheless, a deep and impenetrable love for the Golden State developed and grew and transformed into a relentless longing for a place that is entirely foreign to me. Most of what I know about Cali (yeah, I just said that) is the highly romanticised portrayal of the American West Coast in movies and songs and pictures that I've collected over time and that you'll see situated below, but that alone has been enough to ignite a sense of familiarity for a place which, apart from eight days of the briefest of tourists' experiences, I've essentially never truly been to.
One day I will live there, maybe in Santa Cruz or Santa Monica. My heart and my soul will always belong to South Africa, but, right now, my thoughts belong to California.
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