In praise of the Happy Valley.

I'm starting to feel like my relationship with my hometown is a lot like Harry Potter's relationship with his aunt and uncle's house (Don't laugh. If there's a single person in this world who dislikes the Harry Potter books, it just means he or she hasn't read them yet.) It's not my favorite place in the world, but at the same time, it's necessary for me to return at least once a year. As long as Harry Potter could call Privet Drive home, he was protected from evil spells. As long as I can still call Amherst home, I'm protected from that evil known as adulthood.
All geeky comparisons aside, I'm kind of looking forward to coming home (in less than two weeks, for anyone keeping track.) As similar as Claremont is to Amherst, there are some things my hometown has that this place will never have. Bucket Man, for instance, and the crush-worthy baristas at Rao's. The certainty that if you go into town at the right time on a weekend night, you'll run into at least three people you know. Antonio's pizza and $5.25 movies at Cinemark. Northampton. The idea that a 45-minute drive is a long distance, and the utter lack of traffic on the two (only two!) freeways that intersect Hampshire County.
Not to mention the absence of a species that is indigenous to L.A., the female Angeleno. After a few nights out on the town, I've encountered enough of these that my initial amusement has given way to deep loathing. I'm talking about the woman with the deepest tan and blondest hair you've ever seen. She wears a top that could, with the addition of a little more fabric, be a perfectly good handkerchief. Compliment her on her breasts and she will proudly give you the name of her doctor. If you're the bouncer at a club that she is trying to get into, you will, for a few shining minutes, become the most important person on the planet. You'll be attractive and smart and every joke you make will be hilarious--until, of course, you let her in, at which point, for her purposes, you'll stop existing.
Even the most self-absorbed, superficial female Pioneer Valley residents--and I'm sure there are a lot of 'em--don't come close to this pinnacle of artificiality. This may be because there are no clubs worth getting into, but I prefer to think it's because a true New Englander will opt out of the whole fake friendliness thing and go for the good old-fashioned barely veiled hostility. There's no place like home...