Where Do You Want To Live When You Grow Up?
Inspired by the beauty of Northern California, the lines of Elena Ferrante, and the things that pop up along the way
As I was sending out my last email to my subscribers, I was thinking – how long has it been since I’ve written a real story? A story that excites me. A story I’m eager to share. A story I don’t want to forget.
That thought came to me the day after I returned from Northern California, where I had spent ten days with my partner and his dog. A trip that left me tired, yes, but also filled with a kind of beauty I didn’t want to keep to myself. I felt that familiar writer’s itch, an urge to put something down before it faded.
I’m still tired as I write this, worn out from the long ride back, and from allergies that kicked in shortly after our arrival in the Bay Area. It’s like some kind of curse, to be stunned by the beauty of nature that has such a soothing effect on your mind, but kind of the opposite effect on your body.
In my weakest moment, I was reading a book in a beautiful little garden in Sebastopol when I felt my body couldn’t bear being outside anymore. My nose was running uncontrollably, my eyes were itchy and swollen, my head felt like it was about to explode.
Penny was lying beside my chair. Half of my body was in the shade, while the sun was shining on my pale legs. The book was beautiful, and I felt frustrated that this peaceful moment was being overtaken by my allergies. I had no choice but to go back inside. Penny followed me to the couch. Soon, the lines of the book became too blurry. I kept circling the same sentence. Eventually, I gave up and closed my eyes.
We had planned to go hiking in Armstrong Redwoods that day. When Jeff, my partner, joined us after finishing work, I told him I didn’t even have the strength to get up, let alone hike.
The problem was, the beauty of Northern California fascinated me. The dense forests, the open beaches, the way the landscape shifts – from towering green trees that block out the sun, to rivers winding through wildflower-filled meadows, to highlands veiled in mist that reminded me of Scotland. Then suddenly, the beaches with sand dunes that reminded me of Portugal’s Praia de Tocha.
I wanted more of that.
So I took an allergy pill and something for my headache, and encouraged by my partner, I got up from the couch and found myself wandering among the redwoods. My body was heavy, my steps slow, but the cool shade and the quiet air were soothing. I imagined how lovely it would be if these giant trees could use their branches as hands, pick me up, and gently pass me along to one another, tree by tree, carrying me deeper into the woods, where it’s even darker and quieter. In a place where my body and mind would feel at ease.
The next day, we went to Dillon Beach, where the cool, salty ocean air completely cleared up my allergy. What felt like a hot summer day when we left Sebastopol turned into something entirely different at the beach — cloudy skies, cool wind, and people in long sleeves instead of bikinis. And I’m from Dalmatia, a coastal region of Croatia, where we don’t see the point of going to the beach unless it’s over 30°C (86°F). Like, what are we supposed to do on the beach if you can’t swim in the sea?
Yet Dillon Beach was crowded, despite the chill and the clouds. Only crazy surfers (whom I call crazy, but only because I’m jealous) were in the water. But people did stuff on the beach. So I decided to give it a try.
The sand was warm and cozy. Lying on it was a joy I rarely get back home, where beaches are mostly rocky or pebbly, and you really have to try hard to find a spot that doesn’t poke you. So it didn’t feel so crazy to just lie on the sand and read.
The Story of a New Name, the sequel to My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante, pulled me in completely. Around me, kids screamed, dogs barked, people played games, moved their things, ate, and drank (turns out you really can do a lot on a beach without swimming), but it all faded away.
I was back in Naples, with Lila and Lenu, two childhood friends whose story reminded me so much of my own. Of me and my best friend growing up in a small village on an island, where we both ended up when war disrupted our lives.
And now, 30-something years later, separated by many miles, we were together again, reading the same book. I messaged her when I started the first. A few days later, she sent me a photo of My Brilliant Friend. Then, weeks after, a photo of the second book. My brilliant friend read faster than I, which made me rush to finish mine. I searched the bookstores in Oakland for the sequel, only to find the one I had just finished.
I came home disappointed and slumped onto the couch. My eyes landed on the bookshelf in the house we were staying in, and there it was: The Story of a New Name. For a moment, I thought I had fallen asleep on the couch and was dreaming. I stood up quickly, I didn’t want the book to slip away like it would in a dream, and there it was, in my hands: Elena Ferrante’s The Story of a New Name. Strangely, it was the only one of the series on the shelf.
“Where do you want to live when you grow up?” she asked me once, my brilliant friend. We were maybe nine or ten.
“I’m okay here, or maybe back in my hometown, Zadar,” I said.
“What? You want to stay here? No!”
Soon, she convinced me, as she often would, that England (where we thought all people from TV who spoke English lived) was a much better place for grown-ups.
Now I want to tell her: there was so much about that “England” we imagined that TV didn’t show us. Probably because it wasn’t nice enough for TV.
I also wish we could take our bikes again, like we did as kids. Ride through woods and vineyards and along rivers. Discover the world outside the small box we grew up in. The box that often felt too small and too harsh for both of us, especially for her. And yet, she was the one who stayed.
“You want to walk?” Jeff asked when he woke up from his nap, snapping me back to the present.
So, we walked through the warm sand, ran with Penny, watched the surfers, and then headed out to Bodega Bay to stand in line for 45 minutes for an ice cream.
Behind us, a couple talked about Serbia. Someone had described the country as “the best country in the world,” and the man telling the story was stunned anyone could say that.
Serbia and my home country, Croatia, were once part of the same country–Yugoslavia. That’s the country I was born in. But only a few years after I was born, it all fell apart in the worst possible way. That tragic series of events led to the encounter of my brilliant friend and me on that small Croatian island.
It’s funny, Serbia is so close to my home country, and I’ve never visited (though I would like to), so I really wouldn’t know if it might be the best country in the world. But I assume it could be, for someone. Maybe even for that man in line, if he gave it a chance. I know for sure the ice cream is cheaper there, and no one waits in line for 45 minutes to get it.
When it was finally our turn, the owner, probably in his late 60s, who looked like a sailor from a Hemingway novel, complained that he couldn’t find a good worker, so he’d rather do everything himself. Hence, the line. His scooping arm didn’t look like it was in great shape, and no wonder – he’d been scooping all day long.
The ice cream, of course, wasn’t worth the wait (no ice cream probably is), but once again, I made peace with the idea that some time in our lives will just be… wasted. As all time is wasted, just sometimes on things you like doing, and much more often on things you just do.
On the final day, we ended up at one of the nicest restaurants I’ve ever been to: Cafe Aquatica, in Jenner, an extraordinarily beautiful place where the Russian River meets the Pacific Ocean. A place where the phone reception is bad, and I think that’s exactly how it should be. Because you miss a lot of magic staring at a screen in a place like that.
And if you want more magic, if life ever takes you where the Russian River meets the Pacific, go and follow the river upstream. Pass Duncan Mills and Sheridan, and then in Monte Rio, take the Bohemian Highway. Turn right on Main Street and there, in the middle of the woods, you’ll find a place called Lightwave Coffee & Kitchen. But make sure to go around it and park in the back, so you can walk through the garden. Because gardens are truly magical places.
It seemed to me that Northern California is full of places like this. You drive through woods, rivers, vineyards, and farms – and suddenly a gorgeous little food market, cozy café, or a charming bakery just pops up. You can’t help but peek inside. And suddenly, you’re stunned by smells, flavors, colors (and prices). A part of me soaked it all in. Another part whispered: How the hell did I end up here? It’s wild.
And then, just when I thought the trip was complete, a completely different splash of smells, colors, and flavors hit us in Santa Cruz, where we spontaneously decided to stop on our way back. There, at the colorful amusement park on the Beach Boardwalk, it was my partner’s turn to revisit his childhood. We ate ice cream again (this time with no lines) and it melted quicker than we could keep up, running down our fingers all messy and sweet. We rode the log ride, which got us both soaked, but it was worth it, because the view from the top was pretty amazing. We finished off with a haunted castle tour, laughing like kids.
And suddenly, there it was, the “England” from TV. Not the real place, but the feeling we once imagined it would give us: freedom, joy, a little magic.
As my journey through the US continues, something about this particular trip, maybe it’s the stunning nature that always brings me a sense of calmness and creates space for reflection, made me pause and think. Think about how everything that happened after that question, “Where do you want to live when you grow up?”, led me here, to this exact moment, far away from my childhood friend.
In that mood, the movie Past Lives, which I watched on this trip, just made everything fall into its logical place, just like that book on the shelf.
And then, my question – Am I where I’m supposed to be right now?– just sounded completely ridiculous.
This post fits perfectly with July’s theme on Write Despite: Make It Yours, where we’re asking, What do I want my writing life to actually feel like? For me, this piece is part of that answer.
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