4 8 15 16 23 42: How "The Island" Healed Me

Summer has gone really fast. This whole year has. I genuinely can still recreate every memory of walking along the shores of Dorset in August where I got a cottage by myself for a few days to relax. I had less than five pieces of clothing with me, only really needing a hiking outfit, yoga pants and a summery dress which I didn't end up wearing. I had tan lines where my hiking boots sat, I was, outside, for eight or nine hours every day, walking through the most stunning scenery, and I allowed some thoughts to go through my head that are usually safely stored away in my insanely busy life. And because I did, it's easy to see how they had changed when I did the same thing again in Hawaii this month. 

I have been haunted by a ghost for now three years. I tried a few things to exorcise this ghost, often claiming I did it. But I never did. This ghost is pretty private and not the subject of a public blog post but it was there almost every time I wrote a word in the last two years and a half. The ghost led my fingers to write many of the things I wrote over that time period without ever being named. But being haunted is scary, let me tell you. Having a ghost show up whenever you walk through a countryside by yourself, when you give your mind the chance to reflect and remember, makes you scared of the bliss that is relaxation, winding down, being alone. In Dorset, only a few months ago, that ghost was with me. In Hawaii, it finally left me alone for once.

Hawaii was the first time in a long time I was smiling when I was walking through these amazing places. There is no place I love being more than where fresh air, silence and the color green are the ghosts. I got off the plane in Hawaii smiling so much the airport staff laughed. There were many moments I just couldn't believe where I was. These things keep happening to me that blow all of my expectations, and my eyes didn't stay dry thinking about the fact I was on an island in the Pacific, like Jack, Kate and Hurley, which I never imagined I'd ever be lucky enough to visit. Never! And yet there I was, picking up a car to spend a week driving around that island, enjoying the bliss that is a mind free from my ghost.

Distance really is a thing, isn't it? I didn't think about anything but the amazing beauty I was seeing when I headed to my first dinner on the island. I was eating a fish taco, drinking a beer and listening to a local singer sing Hawaiian songs while a woman was dancing the hula and dolphins were frequenting the bay the restaurant was located at. I joked to the girl I had just met that if I went home the next day the trip would already have been worth it. When you fill your body with that much positivity, amazing things will happen. And it really, really was just the beginning of all the amazing things that would happen.

I met a guy the next day who ended up doing most of these amazing things with me the whole week long. He was an "island boy", so very different from my "city girl". We talked for hours - including about ghosts. Mine was in the back of my mind sometimes but the stunning adventures I was getting up to occupied the front of my mind. There were many moments I wanted to "freeze", trying to memorize colors, scents and sounds so I'd have an easier time remembering them. Some moments are just so good, no memory would ever be good enough. And therefore the ghost stayed away. The conversations I was having with this guy made me realize that the back of my mind is where the ghost belonged, nowhere near my attention. In a way, this guy became an exorcist: his years on that island had equipped him with the mindset I needed to be taught to leave the ghost somewhere. Somewhere else.

What was it about that island that was so healing? Sure thing, the stunning views, the fish taco, the company and the absence of any duties do a little magic. But above all, somewhere along that week, I recovered my self worth. My crazy life, so busy and full of things that are supposed to keep the ghosts at bay, was on hold without the solitude of an island making me think about all that had passed - and hurt - in the last three years. I could feel my heart rate returning to normal, my jaw relaxing at the sight of the rolling hills and my mind being utterly filled with gratitude instead of dark memory. I think, maybe it was time, I just never gave myself the chance to have this experience. I think that's what they call "processing feelings". I suppose I just allowed to let a bit of the "Mahalo" in. It's easy when you wake up to THIS every morning...

If London Was A Man: A Love Letter To The City

Find a man that looks at you like Faf De Klerk looks at the Rugby World Cup, they say. Or other equally relevant comparisons. I have often thought about what I want to be to whoever loves me. I believe you can see it in someone's face, if you're loved or not. I've seen the look twice, maybe I gave a look back. When I looked at London from seat 34F on British Airways flight 993 yesterday, I realized I was giving the city the look: my eyes felt watery because it was so beautiful, I felt a sense of coming home and recognized small things from the distance that other people in the other seats ending with F wouldn't be able to see. And then it dawned on me: I'm looking for London; I'm looking for a man that makes me feel like London does. 

If London was a man, I'd marry him. I've said it a million times. London has always been my favourite city and one year after finally moving here properly, I'm still in love. Just like real love, who knows how long that will last, but one could argue it's the single best relationship I've had. But let's get real into it: what does London have that I look for in a partner? I've dated plenty of good men, yet they were Cambridge, Hamburg or Rio de Janeiro: all wonderful places I definitely loved… but nothing when compared to London. 

When I was on the plane, coming home from Berlin, I had the funniest sensation. I had taken off from Berlin thinking that I'm stupid to live in the UK. I can have Germany, for crying out loud. And Germany is hands down the better country. It's a great fit for me: people laugh about the same things as me, they know all the shows I watched as a kid and they recycle like madmen. It's a great match - on paper. Most people fancy it. But then you see London. The plane flies over Victoria Park first and you remember how you sat there in the summer in a bikini with your friend, drinking beer and eating strawberries. You see a green dot that is the building you work in. And you see the exact running course you used to take between Holland Park and Kensington Gardens. In short, you are coming home, to familiarity. And that's exactly the feeling Berlin, or any of the other men, I mean cities, can't give me.

And all the other cities are great, too. I find it hard to imagine that I will only love one man for the rest of my life once I've found one. There will be other men that tickle the fancy. But there is only one London. I walked around Hamburg this year and sincerely attempted to picture life there. It's a very easy thought: it's a great city, with more affordable housing, with a much better quality of life. I also returned to Scotland and looked at the amazing life people live up in the Highlands, how they have what I crave so much: peace, tranquility and the ability to have a dog. So if we're honest to ourselves, there will always be other cities. And men. There will always be the possibility of starting fresh with someone new, someone different. But if you have found London, the others just don't compare. 

It's precisely this notion that makes me realize what makes London such a good partner: yes, I want freedom, the outdoors and a dog, but what I want most right now is opportunity, excitement and the ability to grow and expand culturally, personally, professionally. London lets me do that. It gives me a deck of cards I can use to become the person I want to be, doesn't limit me or direct me. If it's not achievable here, it's not achievable anywhere. A partner should do exactly that, no? Enhance your life, not change it, lend support for all the things you want to achieve. And if things go wrong, help you steer the wheel towards a new idea. I've not met, or loved, a person or place other than London that has given that comfort. But ultimately, that's the goal: not do it all alone, but together. 

The last couple of years, dating a handful of pretty great men, I also found a pretty great fault in myself. I am one hundred percent not myself to anyone I've known less than ten years, never mind who I just met. It's not like I'm faking it, but I just take a long, long time to trust anyone. This ends up manifesting in me being nice enough but ultimately not the person I'd be if I was laying it all out there. Only the right person would get that pleasure, which probably isn't always a pleasure but more often than not. London, however, let's anyone be who they want to be. It makes me feel comfortable to walk past a goth gay couple, covered in tattoos from head to toe, making out in the middle of the street. In London, they feel accepted enough to be whoever they want to be. That's inspiring, and the pursuit of a relationship I'd want to be in, away from judgement or caution. Anyone uncomfortable in Hackney can try Clapham, anyone hating Whitechapel can flee to the white haven of Hammersmith. There's literally room for everyone. 

So London gives me comfort, it excites me, it's helping me grow, allows me to be myself and makes me forget all the others, but the biggest reason, well, is really the difference between love and like: I feel lucky every day to be here. I have enough in my life to make it in London, the greatest city in the world. I am one of millions of people, yet feel like I am winning the lottery. Everyone else's love story with London doesn't take away from mine and I feel London smiling at me, and me only, when I walk through the Heath. I'm aware of my privilege to call a place my home that can make me feel all this. Just like finding the love of your life, that's not a thing that happens in everyone's journey. I've not done anything to deserve this, but still receive it. And that's the feeling I am looking for in a person, too: feeling lucky to have found them. Who can explain these things? They don't seem to make much sense. But ultimately, they make us happy and whole most of the time. Like I chose London, I'd like to choose a person to look at with those eyes. But not everyone is London… 

Stress Kills: What I learned From My Mammoth Month of Travel

I never get to blog anymore... what an awful sentence. It was true about five months ago, when I was already coming to terms with the reality that my job, at least for its initial super-exciting year, was taking over my life. Hobbies, such as blogging, had to be replaced by the ones one cannot skip. There are only so and so many hours in the day, and hobbies such as yoga and reading cannot be skipped, because if I do, I die (maybe not immediately, but a lot earlier). But then came the summer, or, as I will refer to it in my 2019 review, the busiest time of my life. Even yoga and reading are now luxury. Life is a cloud of stress, appointments and responsibilities, plus all the thinking about things I would like to do. But I wouldn't be me if I didn't use this experience to draw on the silver lining: I just had to become more efficient about stress.

Before the summer, I was receiving my first few speaking assignments. I asked my manager about which ones we would say yes to, and since the first two coming in were asks from abroad she couldn't follow herself, I jumped on the chance. Then, weeks later, whoops, there are five more requests, some of which I can't even say no to (neither would I want to) and homework from myriad of other teams. Suddenly, a full time job means full time, as in all the time there is. I did weekends and late nights, fully knowing this wouldn't stay this way. It was all fun and great experience... but ultimately tiring.

I never had to do anything. But I wanted to. I loved working hard because the outcomes were great. But my body was taking note. In July, after a stressful time at work and personal things happening, my face blew up. As in, I literally woke up and my face was gone: my eyes were swollen shut, my whole face was twice the size and without a cold compression on it I could barely speak. My body had reacted to the stress. While it wasn't just the job that time, but my body literally saying "no" to an emerging personal situation, I learned something important: I cannot fool that body. It knows things. I can try to be the person that can deal with stress, but give that body something it doesn't want, and it will find a way to let you know.

In this case, my body was saying no to a reemerging relationship before I even realized I didn't want it. There are signs, and my mind is slower at picking up on them than my body. Some of them can be read if practicing mindfulness. But if you want it or not, reality will get ya. Sooner or later. Sometimes powering through is what is necessary. Then, my body usually just pauses the exhaustion for when it's ok to come out. It's like there is a certain amount of relaxing that has to happen; a process of finishing a stress response cycle. The more stress occurs, the more time is needed to finish the cycle. There is just one problem: There is no time. I don't have time to do everything I NEED to do and actually finish my stress response cycle. Thankfully, there are ways to cheat.

For me, to relax, I need to either be alone and "do nothing", so watch a show or read, listen to music, or do yoga or run. I definitely need time to be alone, otherwise I don't think, and thinking, I suppose, is what is needed to process what is going on. Lord knows I'm not good at processing. But procrastination of these relaxing activities will become a problem for me. Sure, going out for a drink or going shopping is also fun to me, but it doesn't help my stress cycle. I have found that to actually get my heartbeat back to normal, I have to become more efficient about relaxing, because I never have time to do it.

Step one: regular yoga. I take time at lunch to do it. Meetings piling up make me want to skip it sometimes but I just know that they won't be productive if I do them strained. So yoga is, and should be, a priority in the day. If I have no access to it, like in the past two weeks on the road, I can virtually watch the stress build. After a week like last week, I'd need ten hours of yoga, and that, of course, is not an option. Which brings me to step two: regular long breaks. I don't think I've ever been as stressed as now, so yesterday I checked into a spa. It took me four hours in the sauna to actually stop contracting my neck. My heartbeat was insane. A three hour nature walk this morning was the first time in a month I actually realized I wasn't clenching my teeth.

When everything happens - and with everything I just mean too much - actually saying stop is a skill. Listening to your body is not a talent, it needs to be learned. Just like speaking, and dividing by three, and the capitals of the world. But nobody taught us. Quite the contrary, with all the pressure on performance, a ticking time bomb and influences our bodies were simply not created to withstand, we have to put effort into learning. And I feel like I am in need of some more tutoring. All I know for now is that, as little as I know still, I do know when everything is too much - I just need to get better at catching the moment before I get there, and actually act accordingly. 

"Any Dream Will Do": How The "Joseph"-Musical Opened My Eyes

My mother had always wanted to see the musical "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat". Of course, in Germany in the 90s, the last time the show ran there, it had a different name. And Joseph, the biblical son of Jacob, had blond hair and blue eyes because: 90s. Political correctness or representation was not an issue then. But money was, for us. We dreamed about going to see musicals like Joseph dreamed about his coat. But before we could make it, the show ended there and 25 years went by before the opportunity presented itself again. This year, for six weeks only, the show was playing London Palladium. On my mother's birthday. No longer too poor to see a show, I got her a flight to London and see the show on her 66th birthday. As the show opened with the song my mother had been singing for 25 years, we both couldn't hold the tears back. The reasons for that were complex…

When I was eleven, I came to London for the first time with my separating parents. I was a child and blown away. I had never seen anything like this place and didn't understand what people were saying. London was "the world" to me and I was determined to live in it. One day, I dreamed, I'd live there. Spoiler alert: I did it. But then, with my schoolbook three sentences of English, feeling like a whole new world was opening up with the new language, couldn’t have dared to dream. No kidding, English opened up a couple doors for me. I mean, I’m not blogging in German right now, eh?

My mom and I discussed the journey it took to get there; there being HERE, grown up, steady and lucky - in London, the place I always dreamed about. Much like Joseph in the story, my way also led to Egypt. When the pyramids made up the backdrop of the London Palladium, I choked up a bit. I wouldn't have seen the connection then but in order to have the future I have now, in London above all places, those two years in Egypt were essential. Looking at the backdrop and feeling grateful for everything that part of my life enabled me to do was quite the reaction, and most likely one that not everyone in the audience would have. In the last couple of years I have learned to look back at that time in Cairo and really appreciate it which, God knows, was impossible to do while there.

Joseph did all this talking about dreaming, ya know. Not the kind of dream I had last night where I took five different buses to get to the airport this morning fearing to be late. What I heard in the song "Any Dream Will Do" was encouragement: dare to dream big. I agree that it takes courage to dream. Once the dream is there, and it doesn't come true, the only outcome is disappointment. You'd think there is no downside of dreaming and it’s regular practice for little kids. But it couldn't be; it's scary. I dreamed really big as a child. I saw myself as a Hollywood star actress winning the Oscar one day. Why not me, I thought. But dreaming is different from believing, and I forced myself to do both. I was disappointed so many times. So many of my dreams did not come true. But the ones that did are jaw-dropping.

Now, I am not a Hollywood star actress. I am also not living in the Central Valley in California where many a dream of mine was set (I know, sad!). I am also no longer a journalist which was my dream for most of my adult life. But both of these dreams evolved, while the initial one I had as a child never did: be a woman, with success of my own, in a worldly city like London; have a career that allows you to tell stories; live a life that makes you proud on your deathbed (if they don’t come up with immortality until then, that is, in which case, be rich enough to buy immortality). Granted, we are not at the end of my life, hopefully, and I have a bunch of other dreams I am currently trying to make come true. But our tears when the musical started playing were not coming from memories, but from appreciation; appreciation of a trivial thing as simple as being grateful for being able to finally see this musical which, really, is anything BUT trivial. It’s a huge blessing and our lives are full of them.

As an eleven year old in London, we also saw a musical. I remember the organisational team saying that it was expensive but my mom said that “when you’re in London, you just have to do that”. The money was invested, and we saw “RENT”. I remember nothing. I didn’t even know what it was about, didn’t understand a word. The music and dancing seemed nice though. As my mom and I were sitting in our seats at the London Palladium last week seeing “Joseph”, I remembered that. What venue was “RENT” playing at in 2001, I wondered. I had to laugh a bit when I looked up its Wikipedia page: the musical had been playing at Shaftesbury Theatre. Next to Shaftesbury Theatre, there would have had to be a construction site where they built my future office in 2001. Today, I look at that theatre from my desk every day, but neither my office, nor my company, never mind my job, existed yet. “Any dream will do,'' he said. No shit…

Ode to Beyonce

Tonight, I was fining myself on my balcony with my flatmate after a glass of wine, singing along to Beyonce. Yes, a normal Tuesday night acknowledging our generation's biggest boss. For the first 13 years of my life, I always tried to hate what others loved, and vice versa. But I woke up, thank God! And would you look at that, I just said 13 since that was exactly the age I was when I first bought a record that Beyonce was involved in. "Survivor" by Destiny's Child. I had learned enough English to know what "child" meant in German, but I thought "Destiny" was a person, and the band was named after her daughter. And although I couldn't understand her words, I realised tonight that Beyonce influenced me with them then, without me knowing.

"Survivor" is what we were singing tonight. I can translate what I was singing age 13 today. And man, is that one easy message to get behind, right? I didn't even know then that I was one such "survivor". I didn't know what it meant to "survive" because that means there would have to be a threat to overcome, and I hadn't been threatened. Yep, cute! Not so much now. I believe I actually did survive at times, rather than just getting through things. I learned the only way, the "hard" way, that "after all of the darkness and sadness, soon comes happiness", and that "if I surround myself with positive things, I'll gain prosperity". Although it's a good song, only life can teach you just HOW good it is.

I wasn't particularly raised to be a strong woman by my family. I did go to a Catholic all-girls private school where being a girl was obviously not an issue. The premise of the school was "we can do everything a boy can" which, I know now, is incomplete: it's about doing the things men do just as well. The things I am most proud of achieving in my life are things that can compete with whatever a man can achieve, not just women. And for that, I had to be a survivor because that just isn't reality just yet. I don't want to feel good about having achieved something as a woman; I want to just achieve whatever is possible - for everyone.

Beyonce is a great example of that. She isn't just a woman, she's also also a racial minority. Both being black and a woman usually doesn't help achieving (anything!). And of course, her talent makes up for some of that. She's just a fucking great artist. But let's not talk about how great Beyonce is because everyone knows already. What is significant to me is that she has found a way, through pop music, through visuals, through fashion and through empowerment, to shape a young girl that wasn't even aware she could be influenced. At age 30, I am able to see her for her artistic achievement but I need to also acknowledge her for the change she has caused in my life when I was barely able to make my own decisions yet.

I went through the lyrics of "Survivor" and genuinely couldn't find a line I don't understand today. Shit, I've been through some bullshit in this life. And none of that made me quit. Obviously Beyonce was barely older than me at the time and probably didn't know what she was singing about either. But I'm sure she does now. She has pulled off things that aren't even feasible rationally, like making Alexandra Burke win the X-Factor, sing a rendition of "Can Yo Feel The Love Tonight?" that isn't an absolute joke in comparison to Sir Elton - and making a silly little pop song that teaches 13-year-old girls to never give up! What a lady...

"It Is What It Is": Even Love Island Can Teach You Things

Oh, there are so many word jokes I could make to start off this post. Anything with "cracking on" or "loyal" works. But the bottom line is, I'm just happy Love Island is back on the screen. This might be an unpopular opinion but it is my job to analyse pop culture, so even if I didn't enjoy watching it, there's no way I wouldn't. For those who simply believe Love Island is a show devoid of substance, full of superficiality and with no value to society, I say - so what? People enjoy it, and I do, too. And even in this seemingly senseless program I found lessons for myself. And actually, the show's language is to blame for that.

The first couple hasn't even hit the Hideaway yet but the tagline of this year has already been decided on. "It is what it is" is this year's sentence soon to be found on myriad Primark shirts. I hated that expression before the show and now that I see in what ridiculous context it has been absolutely staged to appear on the show, I hate it more. Joe even said "it was what it was" last night and I almost cried. No, lads, it isn't what it is. When has this sentence ever been useful?

I guess it makes sense to say "it is what it is" when you seriously couldn't care one bit less, and I would assume that applies to most people in the Love Island villa. They came for love - and fame. But mostly, for the fame. So, when Molly-Mae doesn't like them back, they are arguably more upset about the prospect of being dumped from the biggest show in the country rather than being 20, super good-looking and single. So yeah, maybe things are what they are but those who really care would never use this bullshit sentence. Maybe that's why I have never - until just now.

To be facing rejection from someone you are interested in should probably generate a different response. How are these people so chill about being turned down by someone they are interested in? It's not what it is; it's shit, and annoying, and maybe unfair - pick your adjective. Or better, consider doing something about it. The attitude of these islanders, but really of the whole earthly population, to just go "it is what it is" when things ask for a response is making me go anything but "it is what it is". It makes me want to speak to every one of them individually and tell them to step it up.

I know, I know, it's cool to be cool. We all want to seem so chill, nothing can phase us. "Me, liking you?", they might as well say, "are you crazy?" Actually expressing to somebody how interested you are in them has never been a weakness, yet that entire house says it to a camera guy only. To anyone but the person they like, it seems. And rejection doesn't phase them because, lo and behold, that could make them seem vulnerable or less in control. Funnily enough, that would maybe result in them being liked back.

For me, watching Love Island is a fun little window in how much it sucks to be young. I pity every single person entering the villa. They're so young and clueless. I know, of course, because I was even dumber and more clueless at their age. I didn't know "my type". What I know now, though, is that "the type" is a construct in their head that will impede their success at love rather than help it. Also, I cannot believe they think the type "bad boy" will actually work out for them. "Bad" is not a good word, ladies, or my branding these days is off. But maybe they will learn while they are on the show - and I'm here for it!

Back in Hanford, CA: Do Things Ever Change?

Last Saturday, I rented a car in Santa Monica and headed North. Past Burbank and Santa Clarita, I chose to keep going. I did not stop at Magic Mountain or along any of the beautiful places along the mountains. I was heading into the Central Valley. All the cars that were driving beside me finally got off the Highway and less and less people stayed on course north. And for good reason: why would anyone rather spend their Memorial Day weekend in Bakersfield or Fresno if they could also stay south of the Grapevine? The only reason I could think of was the one I had, driving to the “city” of Hanford, where I used to live, to revisit a life I had said goodbye to over a decade ago.

As Hanford was coming closer on the GPS, I no longer needed it. I started thinking about the last time I was in there; I couldn’t drive back then and cars didn’t have GPS. My own life had also not seen a lot of progress: I didn’t have any degrees, had not lived in Cairo or worked for either Amazon or Google. Or anyone, to be exact. I was only a few weeks into having had my first drink and I had just befriended this weird-looking guy called Conor. And although this sounds like a long time, I got off on 12th Avenue, drove over to Grangeville towards a very familiar house which had a poster up on the garage reading “Welcome Back Sina! We Missed You!”

Now well over 13 years ago, I asked my friends David and Daniel’s parents for help. I was facing homelessness during my senior year and needed a place to stay for a bits. The Medinas were part of my church and had allowed me to crash their family on occasions since they met me at one of the boys’ football games. At 16, I had made a T-Shirt for my favorite Husky football player, like every Hanford West Husky had. Mine was #50, Daniel Medina, their son. Knowing them now, it makes sense they loved me, because they loved everyone who liked their kids. But objectively, them loving me made no sense, and it still doesn’t. Although I didn’t stay with them then, they helped later when I was staying up every night to talk to them on the phone in the weeks after my father’s death. Relentlessly, they said prayers for me every night and invited me to spend Christmas with their family because mine had stopped existing.

I walked into the house on Saturday, where Hot Cheetos, my favorite PopTarts and a gallon of Sunny D were waiting for me. 13 years ago, I had written down all my favorite American treats on a post-it which Momma Medina had kept. Then we sat down and had a chat. Where do you even start after ten years? I had asked myself beforehand if it would be weird. Back in the day, they had referred to me as their daughter from Germany but lots had happened since. Maybe my eventful past with their son had made it weird, I thought. But it wasn’t weird. Love of a certain kind is not affected by time or events, and that is the love I feel for them. And now evidently, the love they feel for me.

The boys and I then hit “downtown Hanford”. I had spent virtually no time there in high school because other than the Farmers Market on Thursday nights and the best ice cream shop in town, downtown Hanford had nothing to offer, much like the rest of the city. Often referred to as Cowtown rather than its actual name, Hanford had not changed much. Only me. I was also above 21 for the first time, so we hit a bar and had a beer. A good day in Hanford is incomplete without a visit to La Fiesta, the best Mexican restaurant in the city. And another highlight was waiting for me as we returned to the house: Marcus, my bestie from high school, was joining us by the pool in the backyard where we had ice cream for dessert.

naps and dogs... like wow!

The next couple of days had more of the same. And although there is nothing new in the 559, being ten years older in the same place is a different experience. I witnessed my first Hanford thunderstorm with actual rain from the porch, went back to the mall that is now more like a retail ghost town (thanks, Amazon!) and visited my first Hanford bar where I got a buzz from one rum and coke for four dollars that tasted like straight rum. Americans! First and foremost, however, I felt a sense of achievement: last time I had been there I had dreamed about and imagined being an adult, now I was one.

At no point during my high school years in Hanford did I imagine my life would go the way it did. But hasn’t it been amazing? And how lucky am I to be able to come back to those small places that shaped me and still find people who love me. I often feel torn between wanting to be a small town person, but simply not really fitting into that life. But am I really a city girl instead? Where is the balance between London and Hanford? I love both and I could see my life, ten years from now, going either direction. Coming to Hanford made me see that, whatever the size, a place to call home just has to give you this feeling. And those people. And a good burrito.