Caliphilia
I consider myself a pretty average resident of Indianapolis, Indiana. I was born and raised here, went to school here, and I’m currently attending Martin University to earn my degree in Environmental Science. Just like my dad always wanted. I enjoy motorsports and home makeover shows, and I love me a good sugar cream pie. I’ve been called a ‘Midwestern stereotype’ more than once, but only by new acquaintances from uni. By people who don’t know I haven’t always been this way.
Growing up, I was a weird kid. Not a wild kid, mind you. Quite the opposite. Parents, teachers, other kids – everyone agreed that I was laid back and easy to get along with. No tantrums, no ‘rebellious phase’. I never caused trouble, unless you want to count that one time back in middle school when I dyed my hair bright blond. My sister threw a fit because I stole her hair products, but even that was short-lived. I didn’t argue when our parents made me buy her new dye with my pocket money and just shrugged it off that I wouldn’t be buying any trading cards that month. No, I wasn’t wild by any means.
What made me weird was that my interests never lined up with those of my classmates and friends. For example, everyone around me supported the Colts. Even my mom, who doesn’t care much about football, cheered them on during big games. Not me. I was obsessed with the Chargers. If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me why they were my favorite team and I had no answer, I’d have made quite a few bucks over the years. People thought it was the most random thing ever. If there had been a rivalry, they’d have thought I was trying to be edgy or liked them ‘ironically’ to get a rise out of Colts fans, but that wasn’t the case. My dad sometimes joked that I was born with an inexplicable love of the Chargers because I got excited whenever they were on TV even before I understood what ‘football’ is.
Burritos are another example. That’s not a crazy thing to like, I know, but my love for them still stood out. Other kids couldn’t get enough of candy, pestered their parents to order pizza at every turn, and the highlight of many birthday parties was a trip to McDonald’s. I didn’t have much of a sweet tooth. I didn’t care for pizza or burgers or fries. I wanted burritos. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, any time, any day. There was one small Mexican joint, Casa California, that I was especially fond of. It was all the way across town and nobody was sure how I even knew about it. My parents had never taken me there when I first asked for their burritos, and since I was only four, it was unlikely I had discovered the place by myself.
There are so many more instances where I blurted out things that came completely out of nowhere. When we were asked in school what sport we wanted to play, most of my classmates said football or basketball. I said surfing. When my grandparents asked what candy they should bring from their trip to Europe, I asked if they could just buy me almonds instead. One time in middle school, our assignment was to write about our dream vacation. Nearly everyone wrote about going to Disneyland, Cedar Park or Coney Island. I turned in an essay about California that was seven pages longer than it had to be and included several obscure facts the teacher had to look up to make sure I hadn’t just let my imagination run wild. That one flew a bit under the radar because one kid had written about his vacation on the moon, but the teacher mentioned to my parents that it was both odd and impressive how much I knew about California.
My freshman year saw me enter my version of a cringy goth phase which quickly earned me the nickname ‘Kid Cali’ in school. I listened only to Blink 182 and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I must regretfully report that I also tried to dress like them, complete with straightened hair, sunglasses, and weird hats. The only silver lining is that social media wasn’t around back then, otherwise the whole world would have seen those godawful photos of me posing like Anthony Kiedis at my aunt’s Thanksgiving dinner.
That same year, my sister moved out for college and left me her TV. I could finally watch my favorite shows in peace, without my mom interrupting or talking over it. I couldn’t get enough of Baywatch and 90210, and there were days when I probably exclusively spoke in quotes from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. My friends joked that I must have picked up the SoCal slang from those shows. I always brushed it off, but secretly I was incredibly proud of sounding ‘authentic’.
People often asked me if I was from California. It was the coolest thing ever to me, especially when my friends made them guess which part of the state I was from. Most thought I had recently moved here from LA. Deep down, it stung to admit they were wrong, but I always laughed along with my friends at the ‘Gotcha!’ that never got old. People were baffled to hear that I had only visited California once – and didn’t even remember the trip because I was only two at the time.
It was the first family vacation after I was born, and I only knew about the trip because my aunts sometimes brought it up at family gatherings, when they flipped through photo albums with my mom. Apparently, my parents got distracted by my sister arguing with another little girl at the beach and I gave them the scare of their lives by wandering out of sight. I didn’t get far, of course, but my mom says she almost had a heart attack when she turned around and I wasn’t there. My dad says she’s exaggerating and they found me right away, filling my little bucket in the shallow water. He also says I found a seashell that I took home as a souvenir. I turned my room upside down several times after he first mentioned it, but I never found any seashells. Maybe I lost it or traded it to another kid for a cool rock or something, I don’t know.
I guess it’s normal not to remember much from early childhood, but it bugged me for years that I didn’t have any memory of my only visit to California. The first family vacation I somewhat remember is a trip to my grandparents’ beach house in Florida. I was six and absolutely hated it there. I look grumpy in every single photo, and I know I kept calling the beach ‘stupid and ugly’. Why did my mind hold onto that? There was nothing particularly memorable about it. I begged my parents every summer to go to California again, but we never did. After all, California was expensive and my grandparents had a perfectly fine – and free – beach house.
There was never a doubt in my mind that I’d go to college in California. My plan was pretty straightforward. After high school I’d take a gap year and go on an extended road trip to California to check out unis and colleges there, then apply to whichever schools I liked best. When I got my first job, I saved every penny I earned and also put birthday and Christmas money aside for my trip. I was so determined that I didn’t care what teenage luxuries I had to forgo to make it happen. Fast food, comics, video games, newly released albums of my favorite bands – I was tempted here and there, but never enough to give in.
I fully expected my parents to be proud when I told them about my plans. In my mind, I displayed exceptional discipline and ambition and had a clear vision of what I wanted to do with my life. The reception, however, was lukewarm. Once I had delivered my speech about my grand future on the west coast, my dad asked the one question that left me stumped. “So what do you want to study then?” I had no answer to that. All my excitement revolved around the ‘where’. The ‘what’ had barely been a blip in my considerations. I conceded that I hadn’t figured that out yet, but assured my parents that I had definitely not neglected that part and just needed some time to make up my mind.
When graduation drew near, I had gone back and forth on several subjects, several times, but nothing would stick. Whenever I thought I finally had it, a new idea came along. Deep down, it didn’t matter to me. As long as I’d be in California, any subject would do. Obviously, that answer wouldn’t satisfy my parents though. By now, they had let on that they really, really hoped I’d follow in my dad’s footsteps and attend Martin University, here in Indiana. They pulled out all the stops to make it attractive to me, down to not so subtle hints that my dad still had connections and could probably ‘arrange something with administration’ if I had thoughts toward an especially competitive program. I didn’t bite. To me, it was clear that they were just worried about having an empty nest because my sister already left for Ohio State.
And so I went ahead with the road trip. I planned my route, marked sights I wanted to check out on the way, and of course I made a list of schools. Over the past few months, I had ordered a whole bunch of brochures, but since no one program had jumped out at me, I’d just work my way through the list based on the schools’ locations.
Looking back, the trip was nothing like I had imagined. I had been giddy and bursting with anticipation when I told my friends about all the places I’d see, first and foremost the Grand Canyon National Park. One of my classmates had visited the year before and really talked the place up, which was why I had planned a four day stay there. I didn’t end up going. In fact, I skipped everything from my ‘fun list’. In the weeks leading up to the trip, we had talked so much about all the adventures I’d have, the things I’d see, the freedom of being on the road all by myself and doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. But as it turned out, all I wanted was to keep driving.
I took a few photos of quirky roadside attractions here and there, but only if I didn’t have to take a detour to see them. Somewhere in Kansas, a gas station clerk pulled out one hell of a sales pitch to make me go see the world’s largest pitchfork. Under different circumstances, I’d probably have humored him, but since the smalltown museum that housed this marvel was two hours out of my way, I politely declined. In Nevada, I stayed in a supposedly haunted motel that had become a tourist attraction because of a ‘native spirit’ that was said to wander the rooms at night. One of my friends was really into ghost hunting and would have been all over the place. I barely gave the spirit a chance to haunt me. After driving for ten hours straight, I slept like a baby and was back on the road by sunrise.
At the time, it didn’t feel odd to me that I was in such a hurry. After all, I had years worth of pent up excitement to spur me on. I hadn’t set out to see small town attractions. Everything I longed for was at the end of the highway, and the less time I wasted, the sooner I’d get there. I gave up on taking photos somewhere around Colorado, with the exception of a few snapshots outside the Grand Canyon National Park. I wasn’t taking them for myself anyway, and my friends would be underwhelmed whether I’d show them photos of the sights I didn’t visit or not.
For the most part, the trip was a blur. Just a series of gas stations, rest stops, and nondescript motels; whichever was closest to the highway in any given city or town. I know I drove through breathtaking landscapes, passed by historical buildings and places people came to visit from all over the world, but none of it left a lasting impression. It wasn’t memorable because I didn’t allow it to be, and in retrospect, I regret that. Especially when classmates share stories about their gap year adventures or summer vacations, I wish I had such memories of my own. But I don’t.
The best memory from the entire trip I have is seeing the Pacific again. It wasn’t even a famous or especially nice beach, just the closest one on my route. I had driven through the night because my anticipation wouldn’t let me sleep or even take a nap at a rest stop. That’s why I arrived in the early morning, long before normal tourists were even awake. I checked in at the first best chain motel. Not because I was cheap, but because it advertised a 24/7 check-in and walking distance to the beach on its sign, and I just couldn’t be bothered to wait for a nicer place to open. The bleary-eyed receptionist tried to recommend me a diner that already served breakfast when she handed me the room key. I cut her off to ask for the shortest way to the beach and a moment later I was on my way to make the only memory that would last.
The sun had barely begun to rise when I arrived. Apart from an early riser who was walking his dog in the distance, I was the only person around. A few lone beach loungers stood abandoned near the only amenity around, a beach hut with a faded list of popsicles and a sign that advertised ‘flippers and snorkels for rent’. Of course it was closed, but this place didn’t look like it was much of a tourist destination by day either. The absence of pretty much everything that pops in one’s mind when thinking about Californian beaches – surf boards, beach babes, roller skaters – didn’t bother me. In fact, it barely registered.
The waves of the Pacific, purple and orange in the light of the early sun, were the most majestic sight I had ever seen. This was exactly what I had been drawn to all my life. Nothing else mattered. Overwhelmed by emotion, I walked toward the surf, casting off shoes and socks on the way. When my feet finally touched the water, I was overcome with an otherworldly elation. Saying that I became one with the Pacific barely begins to describe it. There was no barrier between the water and my skin anymore, my human form was merely an extension of the sea. The steady rhythm of its waves was my heartbeat; an entire ocean pulsating through my body. And then I just stood there, arms stretched out like in a scene from a cheesy movie. Inhaled the morning breeze and the sea salt. Let the waves wash over me, through me. Everything felt so right, so natural. I had finally come home, back to where I had always been meant to be. In my entire life, I have never been happier than in this moment, never felt a more palpable sense of belonging and peace with the world.
I don’t know for how long I stood there, lost in this state of utter tranquility. The motel room was flooded with dazzling daylight when I returned there, but I don’t remember how or when I got back there. It could have been anything from morning to late afternoon, and at this point I was too exhausted to care. I dropped onto the bed like a stone without even bothering to close the curtains. The exhilaration from my visit to the beach still tingled on my skin, in my mind, when I drifted off, and I recall thinking that this trip would be all I had dreamed of before I fell asleep.
The reality was very different, but in a way I only fully understood that much later. When I woke up the next day I was still a bit dazed from the long journey. Or so I thought. The memory of that otherworldly sensation from the beach was so fresh that everything around me was filtered through it. A faint barrier between me and the world, like a tinted veil that made it seem more vibrant, but also more distant. It began to fade as time carried on, but the lull underneath never went away.
I followed through with my plans and checked out the schools on my list. I had expected to be thrilled and dream up a future wherever I went, but the opposite happened. None of the schools seemed all that great. There was nothing wrong with them per se, but nothing that especially appealed to me either. During the drive, I had been worried that I wouldn’t be able to decide where I wanted to study, that I still couldn’t give my parents a clear answer upon my return. Instead, I caught myself thinking that maybe I should just apply to wherever my friends went, or follow my sister to Ohio State. Even the thought that staying in Indianapolis and attending Martin University might not be so bad crossed my mind. Moving across the country just felt like such a hassle, more so because the schools in California had nothing to offer that I couldn’t have had at home.
It wasn’t just the schools that left me unexcited. The blandness and banality extended to everything I had yearned to see for so long. The authentic burritos in Sacramento tasted the same as the ones from Casa California back at home. I felt nothing when I stood outside the stadium the Chargers played in, didn’t imagine myself cheering in the stands as I had done so many times as a kid. The Golden Gate Bridge, while impressive, was ultimately just another bridge to me. I took a photo of it that one of my friends later called ‘uninspired’. At Union Square, I bought a few souvenirs for my parents, none for myself. I visited the famous beaches – Malibu, Santa Monica, Venice Beach – all of which were exactly what the tourist info promised, and yet I found them shrouded in mediocrity. None came even close to giving me a moment as perfect as the one I had experienced on the smalltown beach at 6 am. Nothing did.
All my life I had thought I’d never ever want to leave again once I was back in California, but when I set off on my way home, I couldn’t think of anything that would keep me there. It wasn’t that I just couldn’t wait to get going. I was simply indifferent.
On the way home, I didn’t visit any sights either, other than taking in a view here and there when I walked around to stretch my legs. Most of the time, I just drove and let the world pass by in silence. I had some soul-searching to do because I still didn’t know what to tell my parents. Surely, they expected me to have made up my mind on the trip, but I was just as clueless as before. In the end, I resigned to the best and only idea I had. I’d play the homesickness card. I’d say that I had my fill of California and while it was a great place to visit, I realized that I didn’t want to live there after all. A very compact, unadorned version of the truth.
My parents were surprised, but clearly didn’t want to challenge their luck by asking too many questions. They quickly admitted that they had hoped I’d see reason, and – just in case I’d really reconsider – filled out an application to Martin University in my name. All it needed was a signature to enroll in any program I wanted, then my dad’s connections would do the rest. I signed a few days later and thereby closed the rift my stubbornness about California had caused.
My friends were bewildered. They said I changed so much in such a short time that it felt like a different person had come back. Some asked if something terrible had happened because the lack of enthusiasm when I talked about the trip was so out of character. A few probably still suspect I witnessed a murder or something crazy like that because the only thing I ever talk about is that one perfect moment at the beach. I’m evasive, they say. Truth is, I’m trying not to be, but I barely remember anything else. It’s all so dull and muddled in my mind. Schools blend together. I can’t say why I dismissed one or the other. The famous attractions didn’t impress me, and I only remember being annoyed by how crowded they were. Everything was so hollow, so alike. Hotels, restaurants, stores – in some cases, I can’t even tell whether they were in LA, San Francisco, or Sacramento. Since I had little of interest to say, the conversations about my road trip soon died down, and people began calling me by my name instead of ‘Kid Cali’.
When my sister visited for Thanksgiving that year, she took me aside after dinner and said out loud what everyone else must have been thinking, but kept to themselves. She said it was weird how I was so tight-lipped about my trip, and didn’t say much when she asked why I had decided to study in Indiana either. “Talking to you feels like talking to a stranger,” she said when we walked up and down on the porch. “It’s almost like I met you for the first time tonight. Like you suddenly forget who you are halfway through dinner.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
That was the first time I admitted it to myself. When my friends had said similar things, I had always brushed it off or joked that my fondness of California must really have been ‘just a phase’, after all. I didn’t want to acknowledge that I had changed because it simply didn’t make sense that I had. I couldn’t think of anything that could have turned my personality upside down anyway, so I just denied it. But when my sister put it so bluntly, I finally understood what had happened. Something had left me. What had returned to Indiana was an empty vessel; a true self I hadn’t been for most of my life. Whatever had possessed me for so long had stayed in California. Its home, where it belonged, where it had always been meant to be.