The Counting Crows once said, “You Don’t Know What You’ve Got ‘Til It’s Gone”. (Editor’s Note: In another era, so did Cinderella.) This week, never were words so true. I am in San Diego, at the University of California, San Diego –  land of “the most beautiful weather in the world”, Mystic spray tan and Greek Life extravaganza. At first, I was very much looking forward to leaving Boston — and all my complaints that go along with Beantown. Now, after 72 hours of sunshine, I never thought I would ever say this, and I mean ever: I Miss Home.

I knew this trip would not go as planned from the very start. Upon buying my tickets on Orbitz.com, I was asked to choose my seat. Bucket seats, AND a window! Seeming as if this combination was too good to be true, upon boarding the plane I found out my instincts were correct. Seat 1A  turned into 22B. Middle seat, back of the plane, with a broken recliner. Riddle me this Batman: What is the purpose of having a “seat chooser” if it turns out it is entirely superfluous? Feeling used and abused, I secretly cursed the very comfortable and smiling man in seat 1A. I quickly took my stink-eye back, as a plane is probably the last place you should wish ill-will on anyone. When seat 1A goes down, more often than not, seat 22B is going right along with it.

I arrive in California to realize one thing. The cold Boston weather that I bitch about constantly gives me a chance to wear coats and sweaters that allow me to eat constantly. In Boston, I’m thin. In California, I have never felt so obese. Dealing with this spout of insecurity the only way I know how, I head for the nearest liquor cabinet and soon find myself forgetting about the fact that I could market myself as a shade stand and manage to socialize.

We get to the bars in Pacific Beach, “PB” as the locals say, and yet again, realize that maybe Boston isn’t so bad.  I always thought it was only “ass backwards” Boston that imposed the intrusive 2 a.m. curfew. Not so. San Diego also sends its residents to an early bedtime, but here it would appear that every resident is a frat boy. At least in Boston when you want to avoid dingy basements or their inhabitants, you just steer clear of Allston.  I couldn’t escape a Pi, or a Beta, or a Delta if my life depended on it.  It was as if you were either Greek or a leper. I am the latter. Worse, I am a leper from the East Coast.

By day three, I was taking the sun for granted, wishing I could wear that long sweater concealing my love of mozzarella sticks and could not sit through one more meal where the usual order was “Caesar salad, no cheese, dressing on the side.”

In Boston, I complain about my way of life — 2 a.m. comes too soon, the sun sets too early, no one pronounces their Rs, all the one way-streets… You name it, I’ve scrutinized it. It wasn’t until I the Grecian cults confronted me that I realized the Sports Sheep of Boston may be the lesser of two evils.  Seventy-five degrees and sunny day in and day out made me sympathize with Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. Seeing every platinum blond stroll by, regardless of whether or not she should be a blond to begin with, finally made me appreciate my Newbury Street colorist when she said, “Honey, there’s blond, and then there’s bleach.” 

I realized in coming to another college campus, and experiencing the way of life there, that I should be appreciative of the choice I made in spending my last four years at BU. Sure, the construction sometimes makes BU East resemble downtown Baghdad. And yes, I’ll be the first to say the jerseys, and hats and cargo shorts and sweatshirts have got to go. But my final verdict? I’d rather drink dirty water any day, than Sigma Chi Topical Weather Fruit Punch.