September 1, 2026
10 years in California (draft)
As a tribute to this place that gave me so much over the last decade.
I was truly handed a lot of goodies by some seriously nice people. And gosh, some seriously nice weather. Also, sweating in a puffy jacket. A perfect image for life in California: always in and out, never set but always smiling. When I arrived, I thought the optimism came from the obvious things. The sun. The money. The general availability of tacos. It took me longer to understand that California is simply a place that expects things to work out. I landed at SFO in September 2016. I remember a lot of rain that fall, and a lot of work. I walked and ran around San Francisco a bunch; new enough that everything felt worth looking at. At Opendoor 2nd office on New Montgomery Street, I sat in the cafeteria with a bunch of immigrant techies watching Trump win his first election. I don’t know what to do of that memory.
California is big, beautiful, crowded, wealthy, and intense. Much more than where I came from. So I adopted the tortoise strategy: breathe, work, take one day at a time, take more good decisions than bad. In retrospect, it may have been closer to the ostrich strategy. Put my head in the sand, keep working, pretend nothing is happening. Nobody really knows anyway. Yet they smile.
It works surprisingly well.
California has also cured some of my existential anxiety. I used to be genuinely scared of earthquakes, water shortages, wildfires and blackouts. I've lived through a few. Eventually I stopped being surprised. I was crushed by Bay Area real estate prices and the idea that I might never afford a home. I worried about finding a partner, then about having kids. Things that seemed impossibly far away gradually became ordinary.
California didn't become less frightening. I became less frightened of California. And by extension, life.
California gives a lot, but it takes a lot too. It's shaky, pumped up, golden. Everything feels slightly overclocked. Real estate is gross, ambitions hyperbolic, fires frequent, and the sunsets ridiculous. Like Gavin Newsom's smile. Strong game. And every year, when my reverse seasonal affective disorder kicks in. I start impatiently waiting for summer to end, I remember that optimism is silly. California is juiced up on hope: hope the startup works, the house appreciates, the next neighborhood is better, the rain comes, the traffic clears.
I've always had a little trouble with hope. I'm more comfortable with effort. Show up, do the work, go through the hump, and trust that it'll go somewhere. Maybe that's optimism too, just less glamorous. It's easier to show up in good weather. Sometimes the weather is the point.
I've not felt compelled to become a US citizen. I don't think I ever fully internalized the country's culture. I'm simply not from here. Twenty-four years of Frenchness is, I'm afraid, irreversible. I don't regret leaving France. It was a momentous decision. But I don't feel an overwhelming sense of belonging in California either. I'm somewhere in between. That's not so unusual around here. California is a glorious cacophony of people who arrived with different ideas about what a good life looks like. If anything, I belong in California's ambiguity and torturous desire for self-improvement.
Meanwhile, I recognize and appreciate many of the privileges of a place that runs smooth most of the time. Life is easy here, however existentially shaky it feels. It's also incredibly expensive and weirdly precarious. There is always another one basis point to chase, usually at considerable cost. California doesn't quite justify its mythology. I was seduced by the idea. Life put me here, then kept giving me reasons to stay. Today I approach my 10 years anniversary, the golden state is testing me big time.
Some would say just enjoy your Tacos and go to the beach more often. They might be right.
It's not a dream. It's life.