Here or Somewhere Else

Here or Somewhere Else

I’ve lost a lot of friends to Somewhere Else. I try not to take it so personally anymore. In fact, my husband and I make bets on how long neighbors will last. They blow in like tumbleweed, whirling about their new stucco homes with enthusiasm. They xeriscape the yard, host a few bar-b-ques, linger for a beat at the mailbox. After a few months, however, they stop waving hello. Garage doors stayed sealed. The fated “For Sale” sign sprouts up. Then they are gone. My neighborhood has turned three times in the past two years. There are those who are divorcing or relocating for job purposes, but most just want to go Somewhere Else.

It amazes me people’s capacity to pack up their lives and move—not to mention their sheer willingness to do it. The other day, I saw a gigantic truck parked outside a neighbor’s house. There goes another one, I thought, watching indifferent movers drag mattresses and bar stools up a ramp. I went outside and asked the neighbor why she was relocating. She didn’t answer right away. She shielded her forehead with her palm, chided someone for not lifting a desk across the pavement. “There’s just no shade here,” she said, like it was obvious. I heard an expensive-sounding crash from inside the truck. “You’re moving because there’s no shade?” I was sure I had misunderstood her. She sighed, annoyed. Apparently this was none of my business. “We want to go Somewhere Else,” she said coolly. “OK?”

Fine, lady.

When I think of Somewhere Else (even if it is Somewhere Else Better) I imagine that whole awkward newness—eating at all the wrong places, shopping at all the wrong stores, the alien street names. Then there’s the epic chore of adapting to Somewhere Else’s ‘culture,’ the we don’t do things like that here conundrum, wherein everyone stares at you like a moron for a year and you never figure out why.

Not to mention that in order to get Somewhere Else it requires one to move there. And when I think of moving I think: cardboard boxes, duct tape, broken dishes, and a lost underwear box flung from a truck outside Topeka. I think illogical packing schemes: toasters tossed in with the bathrobes alongside kitchen knives and baby food all cushioned with chocolate chips because you ran out of newspaper two days ago. I think of those senseless conversations unraveling at breakfast. . . Remember the omelet maker? Whatever happened to that thing? Did you pack it? Deep down knowing it was thrown out one desperate night because no one felt like hauling it across country.

But this doesn’t seem to stop most people. In fact, once they’ve arrived Somewhere Else they feel compelled to tell me all about it and suggest I move, too. I get emails expounding on bucolic landscapes, ocean views, whatever. You should really move Somewhere Else, they advise. It’s much better here, they say.

Sometimes, in truth, I think about it. A particularly tearful plane ride with two small children always gets me pondering: Why do I live here anyway? Wouldn’t it be great to have some family (read free childcare) around? Wouldn’t it be rich to shop at Nordstrom’s, a giant one one, with a piano player belting out ambiance near the escalator? And occasionally, especially when pregnant, I have marveled: Gee. What I wouldn’t give to wrap my paws around the most ruthless, unabashed, two- pound corned beef sandwich on rye. At these moments I have said the unsayable; uttered the unutterable; thought the unthinkable. I want to move Somewhere Else, I’ve said to my husband. Somewhere Else closer to family. Somewhere Else with good deli. Don’t you think it’s time we went Somewhere Else? —and the words will hover there between us, like a perfectly cast glob of spit, spinning dully.

But never for long. Partly because we like it here; partly because we can never agree about where to go, but there’s more to the story than this. In staying here we avoid the Herculean feat of moving. I’m convinced there is a forgotten circle in Dante’s hell named, “Relocation” featuring china cabinets, washing machines, styrofoam peanuts, and a rusty U-Haul.

So, for better or worse, we’re stuck Here. Here in a place, ironically, where so many are bent on leaving for Somewhere Else.

In light of this, I offer you a challenge. Let’s say you are thinking about moving. Don’t. Try staying Here instead. Why not keep me company? Deposit your own roots. Unfurl your own blossom. Make your own shade.

Jennifer Ruden is from Somewhere Else with good deli and better shopping. She now happily lives Here with her husband and their two daughters. You can reach her at abqwriter@yahoo.com