The Happy Place

What is your happy place? Is it something in memory? Something in imagination? Someplace you can escape without feeling like it’s just a temporary escape, some place where you can hide out? Is there an actual physical spot you can go to and feel at peace, all’s right with the world, or at least the madness of the wider world can’t get inside you for a while?

This is something I’ve had a long time to mull over in the last few weeks and months, largely because I’m looking for commonalities – is there one thread (or several) that run through all of these places in my memory? Something that’s easily reproducible in a pinch? Something that informs why it works and how I can obtain that peace of mind elsewhere? Why not take a look and see what comes up?

One of the first things was isolation. Whether it was stashing myself under the gym bleachers at day care, locking myself in my room as an adolescent, or just squirreling away in music-building practice rooms or walking around abandoned academic buildings at midnight as an undergrad, getting away was frequently a big part of it. Not even necessarily isolation – retreating to a Tahoe cabin with the wife or going down the basement cigar shop with a bunch of guys whose names I never knew. A cozy space away from most of the world – that might be as clear a definition of the happy place as I can think of, with one exception: if I have a crew around me, we can do anything. The 4P’s on Saturday night. Winery tours. The Santa Cruz Warriors game. (It’s a particular paradox of the bus leagues that the San Jose Giants at home can be either a group outing or cozy isolation in the exact same seats.)

There’s also dark. Obviously a public house is not often well-lit, which is the desired effect. Neither is a cabin in a snow-strewn landscape with a fire in the potbelly stove. In recent months, I’ve come to appreciate the appeal of copper string lights as the only illumination, especially against a plain brick wall. It’s the same principle by which I feel better in the fog: sometimes, you’re just better off without too much light. It’s why I couldn’t go to my favorite San Jose pub in the summertime: because I hate walking out of the pub when it’s still light. (It doesn’t help that they lack air conditioning.) The practice of staying home in the front room to try to pub it works less well when sunlight is still streaming through the windows. (By contrast, having the Christmas string lights as the only illumination works surprisingly well.)

On the other hand, something I never would have considered before moving here – there’s the coast. Highway 1 from Ocean Beach in the city all the way south of Davenport – the Pacific off to your right as you drive down, past small towns and random homes and the occasional pie ranch or strawberry farm. The sort of place where if you did have a tiny house, you’d be happy to plunk it down within sight of the ocean and set up one of those zero-g reclining chairs outside (maybe bike-chained to the corner of the house) to read and watch the waves in the distance on a foggy day.

A few years ago, I described the seaside town where the “coffee shop” is the old diner, the bar has a fireplace and doesn’t carry anything fancier than Guinness, the cops all still carry revolvers and the baseball comes over the radio, and how I’d take turning 60 now if I could just be retired there. I kind of stand by that, but more than ever the thought drifts through – Greenock, in Scotland? Somewhere like Kinvara on the west coast of Ireland? Someplace where I don’t have a rooting interest in the sport and don’t even understand the politics and could just relax for the rest of my days?

Which really gets to the point of the whole thing: the only real happy place is one you don’t have to return from.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.