The New York-California thing

We’ve seen a slew of movies in the past few days that have been set in New York: In America, with Samantha Morton and the wonderful Bolger sisters take place in NY, mostly inside a Flashdance-sized apartment in the West 40s; Little Odessa with Tim Roth, Vanessa Redgrave, and Ed Furlong, set in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, which had my husband going “I’ve been there!” with every frame, and When Harry Met Sally (it was late and we got pulled in).
When I watch these flicks, I inevitably start rationalizing and justifying my decision to move to California, which is just about the most New York thing I could do (a typical New Yorker hates her apartment, but will not leave because a) it’s rent-controlled , b) she’d have to leave Manhattan, Park Slope, wherever else she is to afford something the same size (never mind she could also find bigger in a less cool area) c) she is leaving, she just hasn’t decided when, so stop asking).
Then, when the movie ends and I go out and walk the dog in the clear air, actually able to see the stars (unless it’s raining), the question of which coast to live on suddenly becomes an obvious non-question–I’m here, it’s beautiful, and why worry beyond that?