Culture No. 2

Last week a friend asked me, “Do you ever get strange looks when you tell people you live in Scranton?” Apparently, she’d had a run-in with an old acquaintance of mine who, when told where I was presently residing, gave her a look that clearly said, “Oh, how the mighty New England snob has fallen. That is a fate worse than Detroit.”

My answer to her was, of course, yes. How could it not be when I live in a town that barely registered on a regional – never mind national – scale until Michael Scott put it there? But the funny thing is, I actually get stranger looks from the locals when I tell them I moved here from Connecticut, a state that enjoys an absurdly contorted reputation abroad. (No offense to the Valley. We all know I’m down with the snobbery. I even have a shirt that says so.)

Here are some direct quotes:

“You moved here from Connecticut? WHY?!?!“ (Or I’m sorry, Poor you, etc.)

“This would be the last place on earth I would move to.”

“You must be having some culture shock, huh? How different is it here?”

My stock answer to the last question is, “It’s sunnier than New England,” which is not a lie because it has been. Granted, I’ve only been here since February and the New E was pretty much wrapped in a snowstorm for the two months preceding that, but seriously. Everywhere I go, people are convinced they live in the worst place on earth: Pennsylvania, Virginia, Colorado, Nova Scotia, the Yorkshire Dales, wherev. They’re all convinced the next town/county/state/country over is better/greener/friendlier/etc. etc. ad naseum. They’re all wrong, of course, because personally I’m still sure Upstate New York is the most normal place on earth, but I’m still unable to explain any of those towns on the Taconic State Parkway, so perhaps there are cracks in my theory.

That said, Scranton is actually not that bad. (Although technically, we live closer to Wilkes-Barre. As in, I could swim to it if I didn’t mind a good dose of dirty water. The Charles she ain’t, but some days the Susque sure tries.) There’s four seasons, minimal traffic, and good hiking. Yes, the nearest Anthropologie may be in Philly, but I can’t afford to shop there right now anyway, so perhaps that’s a blessing.

But most importantly (and what I think people tend to forget), is that Bert’s here. And I would go pretty much anywhere he would go. (We’d have to have a long talk about anywhere hot and humid and South, but I’m sure he could talk me into it. He’s kind of cute that way.)

I must be in love.