balance (part two)

So now I live in West Hollywood, in a neighborhood I generally like. However. We celebrate our diversity -- omfg, do we celebrate our diversity -- and there's real diversity to celebrate. But it's not entirely a, um, diverse diversity. The city government's strategic plan pledges to "VALUE AND ENCOURAGE OUR BROAD DIVERSITY OF CULTURES" in an environment that "nurtures the variety of ethnicity, age and sexual orientation that uniquely defines the West Hollywood community." Maybe you can find some things missing from that list.

In practice, I sometimes think that West Hollywood's celebrated cultural diversity means that you get to sit and drink your coffee next to, on one side, a skinny hipster boy in an ironic t-shirt and whatever passes for the current version of an ironic trucker cap -- and, to your other side, a skinny hipster boy in an ironic t-shirt and whatever passes for the current version of an ironic trucker cap. But hold on, because one of the skinny hipster boys will be gay, and one will be straight, and they might even be of different ethnicities. And one will work in the television business, see, but one will work in movies.

So here we have 1.) Columbus, Georgia, where it feels like every two-legged organism is a soldier or a retired soldier or a stripper with extra coins available if you need them, and 2.) West Hollywood, where cultural diversity is permitted to spread itself across three whole categories of identity. In different ways, at different times, for different reasons, I got/get tired of both places.

And then there's Monterey. It's an isolated community, out on a piece of coastline that you can only get to on small highways. The city has a population of about 26,000 people; throw in the neighbors in Pacific Grove, and it's about 40,000 altogether. (I decline to include Carmel, where we inquired after a downtown playground and were informed that people here would never need or use such a thing, thank you very much. And in fact, the couple of parks we found had some plants and a few benches, and not a fucking thing else. One never really wishes to hear the loud noises of children, does one?)

Spread among those 40,000 people are a dozen institutions that employ researchers and academics. There's a state university, a community college, a mag-fucking-nificent aquarium with a significant commitment to research, and quite a few other research institutes and agencies. That's a lot of latte-sipping elitists for a small town, and I assume that ardent culture warriors get contact migraines just from crossing over the city limits.

There's also a sizable military presence, and a military presence that blends into the category of "institutions that employ researchers and academics." The Naval Postgraduate School and the Defense Language Institute sit on different ends of the town, spreading the camouflaged wealth. (Also in the area: Fort Ord, which used to host an entire infantry division, IIRC. It's now the site of the state college, although there's still a small military presence there.) There's also a biggish Coast Guard facility, but fuck those guys for having such an obviously great job and hanging out at the beach for a living.

So Monterey is an isolated mixture of military personnel and highly educated researchers -- those are circles with some significant local overlap -- in a setting that couldn't be any more beautiful and historically interesting, supported by a very large tourist industry that brings shitloads of cash into town.

For the several days that we were there last week, I kept thinking that Monterey has managed something close to a perfect social balance. At our hotel, shouting distance from the Naval Postgraduate School, we heard at least a half-dozen languages, and a pair of very polite Germans who were totally trying to not seem like military officers thanked our daughter with great solemnity when she offered them a damp fistful of expectorated Cheerios ("Cat!"). At the terrific Dennis the Menace Playground, dudes with very short hair quietly made sure their lunatic five-year-old boys didn't push their way into the line for the big slide in front of my much-smaller daughter. We walked into a sushi restaurant for dinner one night, and there was an Air Force NCO sitting at a table in uniform, and it made me instantly and curiously happy: Look, look, military personnel! (Well, not really military personnel, but the Air Force is close enough.)

Away from Fort Benning and Columbus (and away from the shit-dull sand prison of Camp Buehring, Kuwait), I remembered how much I enjoyed being around people in the military, a certain tiny Louisiana first sergeant excepted. Walking along the waterfront in Pacific Grove -- at some point in your life, do walk along the waterfront in Pacific Grove -- we passed a pair of trucks with DOD facility access stickers on the windshield for NAS Meridian; the drivers were ten feet away in the water, suited up for a dive. (Note to commander, NAS Meridian: It was a weekday -- when you get them back from the NPS, they will not have learned anything.) It was somehow just great to see them, and I wanted to buy them a case of beer or something. (And then drink most of it myself, but still.)

There's a substantial military presence that doesn't overwhelm the town, and a substantial academic presence that doesn't overwhelm the town. There's just enough of everyone that it's always good to see them all.

Of course, I was mostly drunk, so this all may just be in my head.