Living in a Ghost Town

(This article previously appeared on Betterafter50.com)

Have you ever walked through a ghost town?  There is evidence of the vibrancy and life that once had been a part of the town, but now a deafening stillness exists, and perhaps a sense of peace. Yesterday the town of Boston and its environs were modern ghost towns, victims of the circumstances and proximity to the tragic bombings that occurred earlier in the week. With an estimated population of 4.5 million, these areas are usually bustling with people and vehicles and on Friday you would be hard pressed to find either. They were still, but there was no peace.

There were black tanks rolling through the streets--men in SWAT uniforms carrying on house-to-house searches, German Shepherds rooting and hunting--all shattering what is the relative calm of an urban city. 

Where am I? Is this really happening, or is it Jerry Bruckheimer at his best?

The city was at a standstill--just like during a snowstorm...but there was no snow. And as I sat in my Cambridge apartment, under lockdown by order of the powers that be, I found it hard to believe that two men could bring these cities to their knees. Were we overreating? The night before we heard there had been a shooting at MIT. We live in MIT proper--my Kendall Square neighborhood and MIT have a symbiotic relationship--we feed off each other--so it was quite disconcerting to hear the news. All the while we never imagined that the Marathon bombings were connected...

So we went to bed...

At 6am on Friday we learned the horrible news, and the truth. The suspected bombers were not only behind the shooting, but they murdered an MIT police officer and had carjacked a car just down the street. And so began my close relationship with the TV. I tried my best to do some work, read, and exercise (I said I tried--didn’t say I was successful), but the TV kept calling me back. After a long while it became apparent that I was watching a continuous scroll of reruns and listening to assumptions and sound bites. Pundits with specialties in every area of psychology, terrorism, history...you name it--weighed in on the suspects, their family, their life, what was going on inside and out. Friends from childhood  who may have passed them in the halls--once--became authorities. Even their car mechanic gave a discourse.

Adam Gopnik, in The New Yorker, spoke of all these “expert” journalists: “We are now a nation of experts, with millions of people who know the meaning of everything that they haven’t actually experienced.” 

One dead, one to go. From windows and balconies, families with little to do resorted to taking photos to document the day during their “imprisonment.” It was a search of Marathon proportion for the Marathon Bomber.

And as the day wore on...and on...and on, and daylight began to give way to night light, the lockdown was lifted. (Perhaps the public could be more useful outside their doors rather than behind them?) My husband and I did not rush out, embracing our freedom. There was still a murderer on the loose--where should we go? 

And then, in a hurl of bullets and a flash of explosions (another Bruckheimer moment), Suspect #2 was discovered. Our wish for him to be taken alive was fulfilled and the surreal events of the day were over.

Did yesterday really happen? The buses and trains, and cabs are all rolling again. People are out, dogs are being walked, restaurants and bakeries are back in business. I think of the countries in which lockdowns are a normal occurrence. Where hiding in bomb shelters is a way of “life,” something that is built into the fabric of everyday normalcy. How do they do it? Does someone come around with a device a la Men in Black and zap away their memories...until the next time it happens?

There was jubilation in the streets last night, but there is no real reason to throw up our hands in a celebratory fist pump. Too many people have died and too many people are suffering. Succesfully handling the cause for yesterday’s siege is a victory, but a pyrrhic victory nonetheless.

Did yesterday really happen?

HOME AGAIN HOME AGAIN JIGGETY JIG

I live in Cambridge, MA, but my home is Calabasas, CA. (Well, my REAL home is NYC, but one can never have too many homes.) Calabasas, at the very tip of the San Fernando Valley, is often in the news for being the home of people like the Kardashians, Britney Spears, Jennifer Lopez, and a host of other celebrities. And yes, the magnitude of how much of a celebrity Kim Kardashian really is, is questionable, but there are many other people living in Calabasas who have never seen the other side of a TV screen, and they consider themselves celebrities too. So, just to give you an idea of who my “neighbors” are, and because they have been on TV and in print, we will consider the K family to be “celebrities.” Those of us who are “ordinary folks,” not the celebs or the pseudo-celebs, often take the others in stride. We see them in the market, at the gym, and the car wash. We sit next to them at the baseball fields and at team parties. And in my case, we help them buy their cookware at Williams-Sonoma. 

It took me a long while to get used to living in Calabasas. The glitter and pretense were not what I was looking for when I was choosing a place in which to raise my boys. The city was often the butt of my jokes, and I thumbed my nose at the stereotypes. Eventually I discovered if you live there long enough and make it your business to dig deep enough you find that underneath the glitz, a small town does exist. And most of the small-town things people generally want-- the tight-knit community, the civic-mindedness, and the beautiful surroundings--they’re all there. (Okay, they’re on a grander scale, but they’re still there.) One can often see red-tailed hawks soaring above and hear the coyotes yipping and hollering late at night. It is illegal to smoke in public here and the supermarkets demand you bring your own bags. I never thought I would live to say it, but Calabasas really is a little slice of heaven.  

After being away for almost eight weeks, I went back to visit this home and it welcomed me with open arms. My friends who through the years have become family were all there. And they made me feel special and missed. I took the time during the year before I moved to really solidify my friendships--to focus on the true relationships I had developed through the years. I knew I would soon be leaving and I wanted my bonds with these people to be even stronger than they had been. I think my friends felt the same. We’ve celebrated births and mourned together at funerals. We’ve been through marriages and divorces. School plays, carnivals, and book fairs, graduations and birthday milestones. Facelifts and eyelifts, breast reductions and breast implants. (Hey, it is Calabasas after all!) Visited the sick, the aged, the poor--all together, all of us from Calabasas. I guess you do have to leave a place and then return to really assess it objectively. 

I know that I’ve been away only a short time, and I know that Cambridge will prove to be a great place to live. But the friends I’ve made in Calabasas are an incredible bunch, and wherever they are is home. So Cambridge, I will give you a chance, and make it my business to discover all you have to offer, but in spite of what I’ve heard, I can go home again.

AND AWAY WE GO....

And away we go...I have been toying with the idea of writing a blog for some time, but I never seemed to have the courage to put pen to paper--or finger to keyboard. Until now.  Write what you know, they say, and right now what I know about is relocating, so lots of what I am going to pontificate about here will be about just that. I’ve recently moved 3,000 miles (will have to verify that exact distance at a later date)--from Calabasas, California to Cambridge, Massachusetts. This move, and all the, excuse the expression, “baggage” that comes with it, has been consuming my life for over a year. That was when the hubbie decided he was going to move to Boston to run a company. The arrangement would be that I would follow roughly one year later. Fast forward thirteen months and here I am--with some furniture, millions (slight exaggeration, but not really) of cartons, clothing wardrobes, jars of various sauces, oils, pastas, grains, baking supplies, cookware, and one severely traumatized dog.

As I muddle through my new life, anyone who wants to muddle with me can follow my path. Along the way I plan on including my observations of New England, some book and restaurant reviews, baking tips, recipes, and whatever else pops into my head.

Welcome to my world, and hang on tight...it’s going to be a bumpy ride.