So there's a social treacherousness to my existence in Santa Cruz. Although the part of me that is a hippie, a beach chick (barefoot, shorts, T-shirt, it all seems the right way to live one's life) loves it here, the part of me that thinks and works insists on going undercover. No one is unkind when I reveal that I am overcerebrated, nervous, inclined to fits and mopes—and that I am not here for real. But there is no security in living in a place where you don't really belong, when ultimately you'd rather be somewhere else. In the year since I've left behind my 1943 Miss Ravensbruck persona, I've continued to make new connections in the city, even though I'm only there once a week. I've made almost none here.

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