I’ve been asking myself that all day, even though I know it’s not. The warm sunshine on my skin and the cool, salty breeze against my face is too vivid. This is real. I’m actually here. After all the years of busting my ass and saving every penny of my paltry wages, of months of trudging across the country, hitching and riding the rails, and weeks of baking in the Utah-Nevada-California badlands, I’m here. The more I think of it, the higher I get. I’ve been wandering around Newport Beach all afternoon drunk with lightheaded triumph. My feet are sore and my skin aches from all of the sun it sucked up in the Mojave, but that’s okay; I hardly even notice. Sunny Southern California is everything I dreamed it would be, everything Dean promised me it would be. No wonder so many countless pioneers flocked from the crowded, industrial east in the 1800s. This place is breathtaking. The clear blue sky, the wavering palms lining the grand avenues, the warm, sun-kissed breeze, and the sparkling blue ocean breaking on the white sandy beaches; this must be what heaven looks like.
