New Jersey - The East Coast California?

Hustlers grab your guns; your shadow weighs a ton, driving down the... 206? Although not quite as catchy, this rendition of Phantom Planet's "California" might still be just as relevant. I recently traveled to the Golden State to look at colleges, relax and to be fully blown away by the beauty of the West Coast and the Pacific. Not even shows like "The O.C." or "Beverly Hills, 90210" could prepare me for the cliffs of Malibu, the small-town charm of Newport Beach and the glitz and glamour of Rodeo Drive.

I'm writing this article from my house in Chester, New Jersey while sitting underneath a Rand McNally portrayal of California, so I am still unsure of which state I should pledge my blind, undying allegiance too. I've lived in New Jersey since I was two years old, a whopping fifteen years ago. I was always content with my state, happy with the people, the government and just overall proud to be a resident here. About a year ago though, I was flipping through the channels and stumbled upon Fox's "The O.C."; a show about the hardships of growing up rich and beautiful in an upper-class neighborhood where burning down model homes and shooting your boyfriend's ex-convinct brother in the apartment of your former lesbian-lover are all a part of growing up. Needless to say I was absolutely captivated. I spent all my hard-earned money that my parents gave me on the DVD box sets, and locked myself in my room for hours at a time laughing, crying and becoming fully-submerged in the Southern California mindset. After watching all ninety-two episodes I had come to one conclusion; offer my dear departure to New Jersey, and go headfirst into the Land of Milk and Honey.

I stood in front of my mirror and practiced the way I said "dude" for hours on end. I downloaded every song I could about California until I knew the lyrics to every single one and was familiar enough with every location in Los Angeles to make Paris Hilton blush. However, I did encounter one minor problem: I was still in my bedroom of my Chester, New Jersey house, 2,578 miles away from The City of Angels. So as every grown-up, responsible and mature seventeen-year old boy must do, I begged my parents to take me there. After weeks and weeks of cajoling, along with some help from a very-eager sister, they finally agreed. We would go for one weekend in early June to visit colleges in Los Angeles, Orange County and San Diego. I fainted.

My plane arrived in LAX at around eleven in the morning, Pacific Coast Time. I was impressed immediately because my cell phone had changed time zones without me having to touch it. After I took my eyes from my phone though, I realized that whatever feelings of impression my nerves just sent through my body were to be absolutely crushed, dismantled and spit on by the beauty of the city. Palm trees right outside of the airport, the greenest grass I have ever seen in my entire life, and friendly people who would pass by and ask how I was doing as if they actually cared. I was home. It was one of the few times in my life that I could say that I was 2,578 miles away from home, but I was home.

My family and I hopped into the rental car and drove out of the airport. I was in the backseat practically at the point of sucking my thumb, because my new life had just begun. We hopped onto La Cienega Boulevard, where the beauty and power of California was nearly tangible and already seeping in through my skin and into my brain. As anyone who lives in Los Angeles will tell you, La Cienega Boulevard is a dump, but that was irrelevant. For a simple small-town Jersey Boy, this section of town was nothing like anything I had ever seen before.

We cruised along until we came upon a nice little restaurant situated perfectly on the Pacific Coast. I had the best bowl of clam chowder and the best tuna melt I ever had, from sea-life picked fresh from right outside the window. After the fine meal we made our way to the town of Malibu, a town that has practically become a synonym for "beauty" in the minds of most Americans. The red-shingled roofs of Pepperdine University were looking down upon us, which is slightly ironic because we were staring dumbfoundedly at the same red-shingled roofs. We couldn't have been more obvious if we were wearing striped shirts and had cameras around our necks, but we didn't care. The road through Pepperdine was steep and windy, almost too much for our rented Chevy TrailBlazer. Somehow we pulled through and came to the very top of the mountain that houses the academy. We looked down and were greeted with perhaps the most beautiful sight any of us have ever seen, The Pacific Coast. The powerful, unforgiving waves tumbled down across the scattered rocks. The sea-line expanded from what seemed like one side of the world to the other, all accompanied by the glistening California sun. At that point though I realized, the California sun is the same sun we see in New Jersey. Although everything is so beautiful and magical here, is this just a novelty that could wear off? Do Californians come to the east coast and act the same way I have?

I began thinking about what I had ever heard about New Jersey. All the stereotypes and the jokes, the notion that everyone's neighborhood is somehow connected to the Turnpike. Then I began to think about California's reputation, the home of the stars, the most beautiful place in all of the United States, our nation's culture capital. Could I only be captivated with California because of my pre-conceived notions? Was I more in love with being in love with California than actually in love with it? I wanted to slap this nonsense out of my head, but it was too persistent. Is life really that different out here?

I got back into the car and we continued on our journey down Highway 405. We were stuck in traffic for hours, on a confusing freeway with CHIPs stationed at every exit. I wondered why they were needed, considering it would be impossible to speed in the bumper-to-bumper traffic that stretched for miles. Then it hit me, driving in California was just like driving in Jersey. The traffic is unbearable, the law enforcement is ever-nagging and the cars we share the road with are just as much of jerks! This was impossible I began to think. Unfortunately for me, I was thinking that thought for a couple more hours, as we were going nowhere on this highway. This highway must get its name because it takes 4 o' 5 hours to get wherever you want.

Slight depression was setting in, as my California dreams were slowly being stepped on. My love for the state did not seem to be faltering, but it was not rapidly increasing as I thought it would be. Could New Jersey really be the perfect place for me? On our drive we passed countless arenas, for Nascar, baseball, football and hockey. California has a reputation for having nearly unlimited local teams to cheer for, something every seventeen year old guy can learn to enjoy. There are fifteen professional teams for the four major sports in California, which boggled my mind when I was sitting in the car trying to make a list of all of them. Then I thought about the Meadowlands of New Jersey, the seemingly endless sports arena there as well. We have the Devils, the Nets, and the two "New York" based teams, the Giants and the Jets. Sure four might not be able to compare with the fifteen of California, but considering how small our state is that number is remarkable. Are California sports that much different from New Jersey sports? With New York only a stone's throw away, you have at least two different teams in all the four major sports to choose from. The combinations are infinite; a Giants fan could go to a Ranger's game wearing his Mets jersey and get applauded, while the Jets fan sitting next to him could playfully hassle him while he's wearing his Yankee's cap and Islander's jersey.

Paranoia was slowly setting in, as I struggled ever-hard to convince myself that California is the ideal location for me, and not my boring, old home-state of New Jersey. For crying out loud, this is the home of the stars! This place has more celebrities than your average rehab center, New Jersey can't boast that. I mean all we have is Tom Cruise... And Tara Reid... And Kevin Smith.... Dear God, we're like the stars' vacation home. Shaquille O'Neal and Danny DeVito might have grown up playing basketball on the same street corner, Joe Pesci and Frank Sinatra might have composed beautiful music together here, John Travolta and Jack Nicholson might get impersonated here more than anywhere else in the world. Could New Jersey really have everything California has to offer?

Our final stop on the tour was to San Diego, a city that still has its meaning debated upon by scholars. I drove into the city with a giant frown on my face, ready to be disappointed. Physicists might want to check the local gravity here, because by some natural force my frown was suddenly turned upside-down. I could not get enough of the culture. I gazed endlessly at a local marina; I stared into the vivid lushness of the town with no intention to ever stop. Whatever doubt was in my mind was suddenly erased. Of course New Jersey can compare to California, I'm sure any state in the world from New York to Wisconsin can if you try hard enough. The air is clean in this state, the people are friendly, and the road-system is... unique. This is California, the Golden State. The one question in my mind was answered-"Is California everything I dreamed it to be?" In a word, "yes." In thirteen, "for the love of God and all that is holy yes! YES! YES!"