One May morning, half a lifetime ago, I woke up very early, hugged my sister and my four-day-old niece goodbye, referenced my AAA TripTik, and headed East. 

My car was packed to the gills with my most important possessions – my guitar, an early Mac computer, my favorite clothing, and my cockatiel, Hank, singing in the passenger seat. We headed out 40, spending nights at an uncle’s house in Lake Havasu City, a Route 66-themed hotel in Gallup, and a truck stop in Amarillo (where the chicken fried steak dinner was so good I ordered it again with eggs the next morning). It took me five days to make the 2,300-mile trek from California to Tennessee. I didn’t want to push it.

I had only ever been in Nashville for a short business trip a few years earlier. My impression of the city was formed when my coworker and I tried to find some dinner on a Sunday evening, only to be told everything was closed. Our helpful cab driver called his dispatcher, and she called around until she found an open restaurant. We were not able to buy cocktails that evening, it being the Lord’s Day and all that. At the time, I considered Nashville to be full of kind people, but backwards and oppressively religious. I was not wrong.

And yet, a few years later, I decided to chuck my life in liberal California and take my chances in Tennessee. 

As I drove across the country to my new home, the landscape got greener, bellies got bigger, women’s hair got taller. I planned my drive so that I’d get to Nashville in the morning. I wanted to be able to get the lay of the land before I chose a neighborhood to live in. I circled the interstate around downtown a few times, then finally ventured off the loop looking for some breakfast. 

A Cracker Barrel Old Country Store beckoned, with its down-homey gift shop and promise of an old timer’s breakfast. I didn’t realize how fragile and scared I was until the server laid down said breakfast. The plate with eggs, bacon, and potatoes looked familiar. But as I looked down at the second plate of biscuits, grits, and gravy, I began to cry. I had no idea how to eat these strange foods. What had I done? Was this all a mistake? I contemplated turning my car around and making the long drive back to California, where the weirdest thing on a breakfast platter was avocado. 

Fortunately, I stayed. I found an apartment and began to meet people. I eventually gave up my dream of being a professional songwriter to focus on my growing writing business. Along the way, I met a wonderful man, bought a home, started a family, and made some solid friendships. Early on, my husband (then boyfriend) took me out to Shoney’s, where the waitress informed us that the special was “Eye-talian spaghetti.” Oh, how I laughed. Tennessee was growing on me – but I knew I’d always be a California girl.

Until today. Today marks the day that I have lived more of my life in Tennessee than California. Does that make me a Tennessean? I’m not sure, but this is my home now. When I visit California, it no longer feels familiar. Things are generally in the same place, but it has taken on a surreal quality. Everything is a little bit off. Of course, Nashville has changed just as much – even more – since I first rolled into town. I can buy my favorite Italian foods at the grocery store and liquor on Sundays. What was once a city that felt very segregated is now much more colorful. My own neighborhood has become a melting pot of White, Black, Hispanic, Asian, Middle Eastern, gay, straight, and white supremist. We get along swimmingly.

Back in the 70s, the Mary Tyler Moore Show was groundbreaking for showing a single thirty-something woman setting out to a new city to make it on her own. She was the role model for thirty-something me as I uprooted my life and moved across the country. This morning, I contemplated going downtown to throw my hat in the air in triumph. Instead, like a true Tennessean, I’ll be camping out in my icy, air-conditioned house, trying to avoid the humidity. Maybe later I’ll make my own version of grits and gravy – polenta and Bolognese – and pair it with a liberal glass of grocery store wine. You can take the girl out of California, but you can’t take the California out of the girl.