I fell in love with San Diego in 1995, while here on a holiday. On the day I was flying back to Dublin, I took a plunge in the Pacific, something I had not done since my teens. As I swam parallel to the shore, I was transported back to holidays spent by the sea in Wexford as a child (except with much warmer waters). It was an exhilarating experience, made more so when I decided to take a quick break, standing up in the shallow waters, and a flock of pelicans flew directly over the top of my head, like a squadron of feathered war planes. That did it. I was hooked.
Twenty years later, and resident here for 12, my husband and I live on an island, across the bay from the city of San Diego. I travel by ferry to work and often see dolphins on my journey. The pods look like sleek, graceful, rolling waves, completely in synch with the movement of the water. If you pay attention, you might see a sleepy seal, curled around a buoy. And of course, there are birds: pelicans, blue herons, white ibis, coots, and so many more I still cannot identify.
The balcony of our apartment is full of fragrance: azaleas, jasmine, hibiscus, roses, plumeria. Something is always is in bloom, making you want to close your eyes and inhale until your lungs burst. The humming birds love to visit us there, sometimes flying so close to your face that you can feel the tiniest whooshing of their busy wings on your cheek.
And then there’s the Anza Borrego Desert, not far from our home. I would not have known too much about deserts before I came here, but I have basically learned that if you do not take something by surprise or threaten it in any way, it will usually leave you alone. It is probably not wise to walk the desert floor by yourself while listening to your iPod, but I have done that, not knowing I was being trailed by two coyotes (according to my husband, who was keeping a watchful eye on me from a distance). Either they were just curious, or perhaps they were hungry, but decided I would not make a good meal. I would like to think it was the former.
I have learned not to run screaming from the sight of a black widow, although I had an encounter with one who decided to occupy a shower at the same time as me. We both set down boundaries and kept a watchful (in her case, compound) eye on one another. The same caution was applied to scorpions, one of whom was masquerading as sand in the desert, and which I very nearly shuffled into while wearing only flip flops.
I have ridden painted ponies in the wilds of Utah, Montana and Arizona, all the while surrounded by indescribable beauty, brought to vivid reality from a childhood watching old Westerns with my father, John. And when it has been my honor to participate in a sweat lodge or a powwow, I imagine him smiling down at me, wherever he is, seeing his daughter with "her friends" as he called Native Americans.
I think of how, on certain days, living here makes me feel like every sense has been magnified. No colours have ever seemed so vivid, no perfumes so heartily inhaled. It sometimes seems like my very skin communicates with this vast country’s natural beauty.
For me, this is truly living.
In May, The Irish Times invited readers abroad to tell us about their relationship with the place they have made home, and why they love living there. This story is one of the entries we received. Read more here.
Read Margaret O'Donnell's previous pieces for Generation Emigration: 'I'm struck by the green every time I fly back to Ireland' and 'Love brought me to San Diego'.
