Separate and unequal

The bills come piling in, just as they always do. California or Idaho. It doesn’t matter. There’s the mortgage, utilities, insurance, taxes. Assorted medical bills. We still buy groceries, gasoline, and go out to dinner. I shop at local stores and big chains.

The impact on the bank account looks the same, but different.

The expectation of California is that it’s so obviously expensive. You don’t just pick up and move here without factoring this in. But this is a big state. California has the size, population and budget of a small country. It has deserts and mountains. Traffic-choked cities and wilderness areas. When it’s freezing in Lake Tahoe, it’s 70 degrees in Santa Barbara. Rolling it all up into one ball doesn’t make sense. While some areas are playgrounds for the rich, other areas are pretty darn affordable.

That means it’s a mixed bag when it comes to expenses. Certainly the recent dive in housing prices here made it much more attractive for us to relocate. Even with prices recovering here just a bit, we still paid less for our California house than we did for our Idaho house eight years ago.

The mild weather here has mostly meant mild utility bills, surprisingly even during that July heat wave when I cranked up the air conditioning. However, when I kept our house nice and toasty – night and day – for the month of November, the bill I just received was a jaw-dropper. Yes, California charges more for utilities. We immediately adjusted the thermostat and put on an extra sweater. We’ll make up for it in March, April and May when springtime sunshine means I can click off the thermostat for most of the time. Lesson: if I pay attention, I can keep these costs in line.

 

Other costs are a mixed bag. Gasoline, lower. Insurance and taxes, about the same. Medical costs – lower, because our new provider here pays more of our share. Groceries, higher. Dining out can be more expensive since there are more expensive options here. But my favorite places tend to be pretty moderately priced.

The bottom line is we haven’t found California to be unaffordable. It’s different. We live differently and so spend our money differently too. We think quite a bit about expenses now as we keep comparing this place to the old place. As we slowly become Californians again, costs seem to be balancing out.

December blooms

Staying at the Ritz

Thanksgiving took us back to Idaho and I agonized over accommodations. I checked out Yelp and talked to several people before visiting the place in person for a tour. I was worried about the usual things: Cleanliness, an attentive and friendly staff, an afternoon treat and some good hearty playtime.

Yeah, this is about my dog.

I’m not alone in pampering my pet. The Ritz of dog hotels in our parts, called Wag Hotels, is booked full for the holiday – we snagged one of the last spots only because I booked a month in advance.

Why is this the doggie Ritz? Think queen-sized beds, flat-screened TVs with a connection to Netflix, bedtime stories with a belly scratch, an indoor pool. Ridiculous? I think so… mostly.

My dog doesn’t get those amenities, which cost more than the hotel my husband and I are staying in on our trip.

Instead, my little sheltie is in a medium-sized kennel and not in the junior suite, deluxe suite or super deluxe suite offered here. But I’m comforted by the fact that Wag offers these higher-end amenities. They love dogs and know they are catering to a fussy crowd. This gives me confidence that my pet will be well cared for and not just warehoused. After all, he can’t tell me if a place deserves one star or four stars so I have to use my best judgment for him.

The medium kennel comes with meals, two daily playtimes, and treats. I’m asked if I’d like him to receive a special Thanksgiving dinner that’s being prepared – it’s turkey along with other nutritious sides approved by a vet. It’s just $5, the clerk encourages gently. Sheepishly, I agree. After all, if we were at home, he would get a little something too.

I turn down the other "up-sells" such as the extra cushion for his bed, extra treats and extra playtimes -- even a private playtime is offered so he doesn't have to share human attention with others. Geez.

The days go by quickly and I'm not worried at all. After all, he'd be crazy not to be happy there.

We’re back from our trip and my sheltie seems happy enough with his stay. During the check-out process, I'm given a report card. He plays well with others, I read, and he had a special bulldog friend that he palled around with during playtime. I’m given a photo of him playing, a nice touch.

The bill comes and the price tag is high enough to give me a twinge of something. Guilt? Nausea? Embarrassment? It disappears quickly and all that has remained is peace of mind.

Wired

I’m writing this next to 20 of my new closest friends. We are at a writing/creative collective – sort of a shared artist studio for writers.

Long tables are in the rooms along with white boards and banks of sockets where we plug in our laptops. In the back is plenty of hot coffee, tea and a microwave. Cell phone talk is adamently discouraged.

I’ve spent hours here recently and likely will spend hours more. I happily ignore my friends and tap away at my keyboard listening to the music of others tapping away at theirs.

With an office at home, why wouldn’t I work there? There’s electricity, coffee and all the quiet I could desire.

I used to think it was just the lattes that drew me to cafes to write. A little reward for getting something done. Then I found I was getting a lot done.

Others have shared with me that it’s too quiet at home, laundry to be done, a dog to be petted – so many minor distractions that it’s impossible to work in solitude. But put them in a café – with an espresso machine roaring in the background, people coming and going, music in the background – and they have a laser focus. This is true for me.

At the studio, even as we ignore each other, there’s a collective agreement we’ve made that we’ll be working on our individual projects.

This writing group, linked through an internet site called Meetup, has nearly 200 members and all we do is get together and write. Sometimes we meet at the collaborative, sometimes in coffee shops, in groups of two to 20. The internet has turned the most solitary task of writing into a crowd activity.

There are poets, novelists, doctoral candidates, bloggers, PR professionals and songwriters. It’s an interesting assortment. Our conversations drift from writer’s block to word count to publishing tips.

Many people are new to the area too. We share our stories of arrival and, somehow, this makes me feel more grounded in my new home.

Sunday in the park

May-November romance

It’s a beautiful late spring day, the kind that hints that summer is just around the corner. The morning’s cool start has burned off under a warm sun and my short walk has me thinking about iced tea in the shade.

But wait. This isn’t May. It’s mid-November. What the heck.

No wonder I’m confused. Back in Idaho, they’re celebrating the season’s first snowfall. Fireplaces are lit, trees have already blazed fiery red and orange and now are bare, and windows are shut tight til spring. The real spring. Which arrives in May when nighttime temperatures finally rise above freezing.

Here, the locals call this autumn, even though the trees have scarcely put any color on. The leaves, so used to long months of warmth, can only muster a resentful sickly yellow and dull rust before fluttering to the ground. My rose bush has bloomed again, thumbing its nose at the calendar.

Moving to a new state and a new climate zone changes how you live. While that seems obvious, the living of it is something else altogether. I walk to the mailbox without pulling on the fleece. Keep my sunglasses nearby. Ignore my sock drawer – it’s still sandals weather. Lunch at outdoor cafes.

My closet full of coats, cozied up to an equal number of scarves, made perfect sense in a state where there’s a progression of cold that ultimately goes bone-deep.

There are chilly days, cold days, snowy days, freezing blustery days, and unbelievably bone-chilling there-is-no-coat-warm-enough-days. Still, if I were still in Idaho, I’d join everyone else in looking forward to a good snow. Bring it on.

But now 600 miles away, I whittled my coat collection down to half a dozen, but only one is needed here. 

One light coat that is waterproof, living a lonely life in the closet.

Out with the snow shovels, out with the hats that cover my ears, out with the long underwear. I don’t even want to think about my poor boots, already missing companions tossed out in the move.

This is going to free up an awful lot of closet space.

How long do the comparisons of one home to another last? When will this just be November -- not 30 degrees-warmer-than-Idaho November? At what point is a new normal achieved?

Discovering Hidden Falls

It’s a dusty dry day in the foothills, somewhere north of Auburn. The sun has us stripping off our light fleece by 9:30 a.m. and we go bare-armed to the trailhead. I hadn’t thought about a hat when we left home, and I’m already regretting this.

I’m laughing at this bizarre California weather. This is November?

We arrived at Hidden Falls Regional Park after a winding drive through beautiful mountainous wine country and farms dotted with alpacas and goats. GPS is the only reason we made it here, guiding us through turn after turn until signs for the park finally show up.

The goal for the next few hours is walking the oak-studded hills and enjoying the discovery of what’s around the next bend. Of course, our top goal is to see the falls. I’ve heard that because of severe drought conditions, the falls won’t have much water.

The park is huge, encompassing miles of trails over rolling hills and filled with more than two dozen hikes of all lengths and for all ability levels. There’s even a concrete trail that is accessible for wheelchairs, but moderate and difficult trails are to be found here too. Trails branch off from other trails, which branch off again. We quickly find that we could be out here for a few days wandering from trail to trail. It’s best to have a plan and know the trailmap.

A trickle of water can be heard as we cross over Deadman’s Creek, hinting that there may be a vista at the end of our journey. It’s a half-mile flat walk to the falls from the trailhead, but that would be too easy, right? We are with a group and the leader takes the scenic route. So many paths to choose from – Great Egret, Pond Turtle, Grey Pine, Seven Pools Vista, River Otter – all well-marked along the way.

Our group discusses the fact that California does a first-rate job with its parks and trails. It's a priority here to maintain its scenic treasures. Parks are clean, trails are easy to follow, and they don't overpromise. If the marker says there's a vista, it's probably a good one.

Soon enough, we see Coon Creek, take the Seven Pools Loop and then stomp up and over the hill. My black tennis shoes are coated brown from the powdery soil, so dry that it drifts up and sticks to my jeans nearly to my knees.

No bobcat sightings today but a few hawks circle lazily above. Water bottles are quickly emptying and my throat is gritty from the dirt. We pass quickly through a thicket of bright red Manzanita bushes, and then round a corner.

Hidden Falls are revealed.

Water tumbles down over a series of low rocky ledges and the sound fills the narrow canyon. It's not spectacular but it's satisfying. A generous-sized viewing platform easily accommodates our group plus the constant stream of other hikers. The sound of water is cooling and I gratefully sink to the wooden flooring. Before long, more than 25 people and a few dogs are relaxing on the platform, eating lunch and enjoying a sun-sparkled afternoon.

Do I really need to go back? No one except our leader wants to move, but he has put on his backpack. Our group rises in achy protest (or is that just me?). Before long, we have swung into stride, making our way back to the full parking lot. It seems this is a popular place.

Surely we have hiked round the park several times but our leader points out our trek on a large hiking map that shows the park. We have circumnavigated about a tenth of the park.

This seems like a great place to see in late spring for wildflowers and larger water flows. It would be worth the return journey.