(The) Sticks or Stones?

I packed up the lightest, most subway-friendly suitcase I have yesterday and headed out west. And no, I'm not talking about Jersey. I am all the way west to the kind of exotic place you might think has never seen a small pox vaccination, let alone the inside of a yellow cab: Portland, OR, Home to hippies, Davy Crockett wannabees and lots of lesbians. While a faux coon skin cap might suffice for all of these subcultures, I never thought I looked very fetching in vermin wear. This could have something to do with why I went to the other side of the country. While I love a quick nature hike as much as the next girl, I'm not exactly the poster child for living in simplicity.

Thus begin the conflicts and comparisons.

"Well they don't even have trees in New York, so you must be happy to see them"..."When you move home the grandkids can come and visit"... "Why don't you come back so you can live with your best friend, she needs a roommate"...etc. My parents are surprisingly understanding and their comments only slip out occasionally; most of these are from a mixture of those I've left behind who, for westerners who've probably never tasted proper bagels & lox, have really nailed that Jewish guilt thing.

Despite their complaints and my attempts to placate them, I will ultimately have to make a choice. Even with my fondness for magazine publishing, this isn't Town & Country, this is Town OR Country and it's only a matter of time.