Fog swallowed the city in the night. I looked outside past the scuba divers and there was nothing but a wall of shifting white.

We've been in Seattle for 9 months now. I can't say it feels like it. Everyday I'm glad we made the move. There's nothing quite like riding the water taxi into work, sitting on the upper deck in a plastic chair, the sun warm on my face. There's nothing like working downtown, high above the streets, with all the different people and the shops and the restaurants and the happy hours. There's nothing like the view from my office window, here and now, with all the lush green trees, the few dark red leaves, the sound of bird calls, seal barks, and boat horns. Or the view from the living room, watching the cargo ships floating past courtesy of their tug boats, or the city lit up at night -- I can recognize most buildings now -- or the scuba divers sharing a rocky strip of beach with thirty Canada geese.

It's so far from Santa Barbara where we lived in the front half of a tiny duplex. There I was enamored with the purple flowers on the trees and going for long walks in the evening, the houses glowing with orange light that spilled from windows, and the sky a beautiful shade of deep blue. Our little house was always too warm, and never quiet. There was always the overwhelming drone of Buddhist chants from our East coast neighbor and his pals, or the banging of one song on the piano, over and over. Or, waiting until the sun had set, the sound of him yelling for his cat, "Fluffy" into the night.

California still has its bureaucratic hooks in me, but everyday another one falls out. I received a CA registration renewal for my car, and once I send that in with a note attached, I can only think of one more hook -- transferring my medical records. After that, the rest may as well drop away. Taxes were paid, addresses were changed. I finally feel like a real resident, not just another transplant.