The Peter Pan Syndrome

By the time I finally publish this post, it will be well into October. I'm not sure where the last few weeks went, but it is official: the summer party is over. It had its last hoorah in September before calling it a night on October 1st. Unlike the summer season, which is a carte blanche for chilling aimlessly at home, October doesn't mess around. Why can’t the party last forever?

Labor Day always knocks on my door before it registered that summer even started in the first place, especially last summer when I was still living in San Francisco. Mark Twain wasn’t messing around when he said, "The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco." If you are considering an SF trip in July, make sure to bring your winter coats, no joke. In fact, for San Franciscans, Labor Day marks their summer initiation, as their warmest months have yet to come.

Although slightly off the mark (hardly surprising coming from San Francisco), at least the “city by the bay” pretends to have seasons, hence maintaining a certain acceptance of the passage of time. Los Angeles, however, foregoes this notion entirely. Sunny sunny sunny all year long (well, there’s "June Gloom," but whatever) !! Why do you think people get stuck there for … ever…? They all say the same thing: “I really hated it for the first year, but then I kind of just stayed...? I guess I've been living here for like ten years. So maybe I like it now!?” I hardly exaggerate – everyone there acts like they’re still 25. It’s like Never Never land – admittedly, not necessarily an awful concept. The passage of time, getting old, never got anyone too excited. I hardly know anyone actually looking forward to old age. But, honestly, why does growing up have to be so terrible? I've been babysitting a lot lately and I'm fairly certain I'm happy I'm no longer a kid. They did come out with Hook for a reason -- even Peter Pan realizes he should grow up (great movie if you haven’t seen it!). Anyway, it was in Los Angeles that this all sunk in. The very lack of seasonal change contributed to the artificial nature of the LA scene. I missed "keeping it real," walking in crowded neighborhoods and most importantly the seasons I’d grown up with on the East coast.

I recently realized that this is my first proper autumn in four years. In the past, fall has always meant the start of a new school year, time to buckle down, in brief, the start of a new life chapter. It’s no coincidence that since college I’ve moved every summer, hence starting my new life just in time for the fall. At home for the first time since the age of 18, I’ve been flooded with this cozy homey feeling I’ve unconsciously yearned for since leaving.

Perhaps my season-craving was not so unconscious. Somehow, playing some good old Ella Fitzgerald always hit the homey spot. “Autumn in New York, why does it seem so inviting?” The cool autumn air has been remarkably inviting this year. These past few weeks, I’ve been relishing in this romantic notion of fall and have had these primordial urges to listen to some Ella Fitzgerald, pick apples, and play in the leaves. By the way, apple-picking is obviously the new cool thing to do. I mean, according to Gchat away messages, everyone who’s anyone is doing it. I feel out of the loop, apple-picking anyone?

All of this autumn-talk all sort of hit home – no pun intended – a couple weeks ago when I was driving through the Adirondacks on my way back from my weekend escapade to Montreal. I happened to pass through as the sun was setting – stunning. Seriously, I’m not sure anywhere else does the whole leaf-color-changing thing better than the Northeast.

How have I come thus far without complaining? And for those of you LA lovers out there, hating on LA does not count as complaining in my book. LA is such an easy target... I digress. Let it be understood : summer is for recouping, fall is for getting your shit together. Even the border officials know that. They remind me of it every time I pay them a visit.

Let’s clarify with a little interlude on crossing borders, shall we? Let’s just say border crossing is not a forte of mine these days. It has been yet another cause for my anxiety levels to rise slightly, and by slightly I mean a lot. I don’t know, maybe it has something to do with the fact that since last year, every time I've crossed a border I've run into some sort of trouble without fail. Those border people are mean! Thailand to Laos –the officials managed to lose my passport. Hundreds of tourists were passing through with me, but the officials had to choose mine to lose – whether they actually lost the passport or pretended to lose it is entirely beside the point. Next, Cambodia to Thailand – “mai dai!” Despite my virtually non-existent Thai language skills, I’ve understood all too well in my few months there what that means. CanNOT! Umm, what did I do wrong? For once in my life, having two passports was a disadvantage. Long story short, for those of you with multiple passports, use the same one when hopping from one country to the next. Trust me.

So you may assume at this point that this ill-fate has something to with being across the world far from my comfort zone. Alas, that would be too easy. On a recent trip to Montreal with my infamous brother, we were detained at the border. Perhaps if you’d seen the state of the car, you’d find it hardly shocking. You’d almost say we deserved what we got. After Olivier's college graduation, I miraculously managed to coerce my brother into driving me to Montreal to surprise our friend who was graduating from McGill. Since he was leaving his home of the past four years, Olivier packed his car with practically everything he had accumulated: skis, fridge, dirty laundry, printer, rhum, you get the gist. But we got into the caravan-esque thing. I mean, that fridge was necessary -- we like those beers cold and you know we were concerned they'd get warm in the car for all those hours. Totally valid. As for the skis, umm there still could be some snow in May, right? Isn't Canada like the North Pole? Needless to say, the Canadian border officials were not so amused. They were convinced we were immigrating to Canada. Ha! After a rather curt inquisition process where our already fragile self esteems were crushed into little tiny pieces -- "Ummm, we are brother and sister and we live at home, unemployed," we were asked to “pull aside.” As we sat there in no-man's land anxiously waiting for the verdict, I started to convince myself that maybe we were refugees. Maybe escaping to Canada was not such a bad idea after all? Run! As I sat there half worried, half contemplating running away forever Peter Pan/LA style, I suddenly noticed the creep next to me -- a Buffalo-Bill-esque old man who was apparently hiding snakes in his trunk and probably a lot more. I felt out of place. A few humiliating phone calls to our parents later, we were finally released. Phew. I’ve never been so happy to be in Canada.

Do you get what I’m saying? Border crossing scares the hell out of me! Why? Because I’m a wimp and write my heart out about my life in this blog, but can’t seem to face a border patrol man. My friend in Montreal warned me, “Juliet, simple answers this time. Just stay calm.” But no, I thought I thought my way would be better. “Bonsoir!,” I said enthusiastically with a clearly forced wide smile. Border patrol man was definitely not into it. “Where are you from?” he tersely responded. Ok, ok, I get it, do not flirt with border officials – done and done. Won’t happen again, sir. No more flirting, no more chill-out lounging, no more partying, fall is here!

What I'm really trying to say has actually nothing to do with flirting with border patrol guys just in case you were wondering. Akin to seasonal change, the border patrol man's directness is a blunt reminder that sometimes it’s time to reevaluate or simply be alert. Unlike “Lala land," where people luxuriate endlessly in denial of the fact that they are still waiting on tables at the age of 40 and still have not made it big as they had once hoped, seasonal change keeps me on my toes. And when reevaluating gets old, there's always Ella and apples.