My three weeks on the east coast–during an epic arctic blast–have also confirmed that I am now officially a Californian. Despite this week’s 6.5 earthquake, the state is a pretty glorious place to live. I didn’t always feel this way. I grew up on the east coast, and I remember making fun of California as a youth. When I applied to colleges, I made snide, immature comments about west coast schools such as: Seriously, how could anyone study underneath a palm tree?

But now it’s like my blood has thinned, or perhaps my endurance level has diminished. I love the California sun, the ocean, the sense of space, the lack of serious outerwear. I love the way California men are puzzled by bow ties. During my near-month back east, the only times I’ve willingly ventured outside has been to get to a heated car that already has its door open. I’ve also been complaining a lot. Gad, I must be a real pain in the arse for my relatives to put up with. After all, they’re trapped here.

If your spirit belongs to a region or a place, which place is that? Is it where you live now, or someplace you remember from your youth? Does your writing keep you returning there, again and again?

Or are you a starry-eyed dreamer who knows that someday, someday, you’ll move to your true geographic home?