When I moved from Los Angeles to Bowie, Maryland, I thought I was ready for anything. I wasn’t. October on the East Coast is no joke for someone whose wardrobe consisted of lightweight jackets, open-toed shoes, and a firm belief that palm trees count as “nature.” The shift from L.A.’s predictable sunshine to Maryland’s unpredictability has been a mix of comedy, confusion, and a lot of lessons in layering.

My First Encounter with Weather (and Boots)

My gay coworker and new best friend had the honor—and delight—of dressing me for my first real East Coast fall. I’d arrived with no coat, no boots, and no clue. He took one look at me in my L.A.-chic ballet flats and said, “Honey, you’re going to die.” The next thing I knew, I was being marched through a mall while he declared, “We need coats, boots, scarves, gloves, and probably prayer.”

When I tried on my first pair of boots, I felt like I was wearing cement blocks on my feet. “How do people walk in these things?” I asked, clomping around the store like a toddler in their parents’ shoes. He laughed so hard he cried, which only encouraged me to stumble dramatically for extra effect. But the real disaster was earmuffs. I tried to put them on like headphones and nearly strangled myself. I still don’t fully understand how they work, but I’ve mastered the art of acting like I don’t need them while secretly freezing my ears off.

Tornado Tourism (Almost)

One week into my new life, I heard there was a “tornado watch.” Naturally, my California brain interpreted this as an opportunity to watch a tornado, like it was a meteorological amusement park. I actually contemplated setting up a patio table so I could sip hot chocolate and enjoy the “show.” Thankfully, someone clued me in before I turned my yard into a viewing station. Tornadoes, I’ve since learned, are not the East Coast equivalent of a Disneyland attraction.

Pastrami and Bright Colors: California Habits Die Hard

No matter how much I’ve embraced East Coast life, I’ll always carry pieces of L.A. with me—like my unapologetic love of bright colors. In Maryland, fall fashion is all about neutrals. You’re supposed to blend in with the rich tones of the season. Not me. I rolled into town wearing neon yellows, hot pinks, and lime greens like I was auditioning for a traffic safety commercial. The stares were immediate, and the comments? Let’s just say subtlety isn’t an East Coast strong suit.

Then there’s my obsession with pastrami. Specifically, Johnny’s Pastrami in L.A., which is so good they’ve opened a second location. If you’ve never had it, let me explain: thick, juicy, perfectly seasoned slices of heaven stacked high on a soft roll. It’s the kind of sandwich that could solve world problems. Every time I go back L.A., I buy them in bulk, freeze them, and smuggle them back to Maryland. TSA agents probably think I’m running a black-market deli operation, but then they’ve never tasted Johnny’s.

Palm Tree Trauma and My Love Affair with Real Trees

Palm trees and I have never been friends. They’re tall, awkward, and offer about as much shade as a skinny lamp post. So, when I moved to Maryland and saw actual trees, I was mesmerized. On my first week here, I spent hours pulling over to the side of the road to take pictures of trees. Big trees, small trees, trees with red leaves, trees with yellow leaves—it was like stepping into a Dr. Seuss book.

It took me a while to realize the trees weren’t going anywhere. In the winter, when they shed their leaves and look like sad skeletons, I panicked. “Are they dead?!” I asked anyone who would listen. But come spring, they returned, more vibrant than ever. Now, I understand that trees here have a rhythm—they hibernate, rejuvenate, and transform. They’ve become a metaphor for everything I’ve learned about change and growth.

Finding My Roots

Moving from L.A. to the East Coast has been an adventure in every sense of the word. I’ve embraced weather that changes by the hour, learned to wear boots without tripping, and finally figured out that tornadoes are something you avoid, not admire.

But the biggest lesson has been finding beauty in the unexpected: the grandeur of trees I once took for granted, the charm of wearing scarves I don’t fully understand, and the warmth of a community that tolerates my California quirks.

And through it all, I’ve held onto the best parts of my L.A. roots—my love for color, my obsession with Johnny’s Pastrami, and my ability to laugh at myself. Because whether I’m clomping around in boots or smuggling sandwiches across the country, life is just better when you embrace the ridiculousness of it all.