Some advice to majority of columnists who will write their last article in May: Oscar speeches should stay in L.A. This being my final column, I will seek to avoid the traditional laundry list of thank you’s, emotional fare thee wells and pompous proselytizing that go hand-in-hand with these goodbyes. But I am also not going to waste my last chance to speak to The Sun’s faithful readership discussing Obama drama, prison politics or the much anticipated release of the sequel to Hustler porno “Who’s Naylin’ Paylin.” Rather, this article is a west coaster’s mea culpa — an apology for my close mindedness and an explanation of my transformation.

I came to Cornell supremely convinced that California was, is, and would always be the closest place to heaven. For a long time (some might say still), I raved endlessly about the West Coast like it was the land of Milk and Honey. We have the grandest trees in the country, the most breathtaking beaches, even the biggest sharks! Suck on that Montauk, Long Island! Did you know that everyone in California looks like a movie star? No, no, no, everyone from California is a movie star! Needless to say, I was a bit deranged. Whether it was homesickness or just my attempt to find a community for myself, I couldn’t stop talking about the pristine golden hills of sunny CA. I didn’t bother with euphemisms — I thought the weather, the diversity and culture, even the food from my home was plain and simply superior to whatever Ithaca and the East Coast had to offer. Some attentively listened while others nodded vigorously in agreement — a few just walked away. They all probably thought I was an arrogant prick.

Each of us has a connection to where we were raised, and some of our affinities run deeper than we would like to admit. But by making the nearly 3,000 mile trip across the good ole U.S. of A., I got just enough of a taste to know what I had been missing. I had only met and known Californians and foreigners who had adapted to the California lifestyle prior to my time in New York. Although Ithaca doesn’t have the range of ethnic diversity of San Francisco, it does offer a melting pot of geographic and ideological identities. You don’t really understand why New Hampshire’s motto is Live Free or Die until you meet a crazy girl from Henniker. My knowledge of Long Island before I came to Cornell consisted of the drink and the accent, which I was sure existed only in parody. Before I made the trip out East, I was under the impression that during the cold and snowy winter, social activity stopped completely and classes were held via video chat. I am amazed to this day when I see the determined women of Cornell wearing four inch pumps and not much else, slipping and sliding down the hills of Collegetown in sub zero temperatures.

It is difficult to describe what connects you to the spirit of a place without reverting back to tried and true anecdotes and minutiae about what makes it charming, homely and gorge(ou)s. The foliage! Look at the mother fluffing foliage! Some can’t get enough of Ithaca because of its green and enlightened lifestyle; others appreciate its isolation and tranquility (the Dalai Lama didn’t make the pilgrimage here for Chilifest).

For me, I’ll always love Cornell because it taught me not to sweat the small stuff. Snow and sleet can be a bitch, especially for a California boy. But after all is said and done, the challenges, trials and tribulations I’ve overcome look like nothing more than speed bumps in my rear view. Uh oh. Did I just spend this entire article reminiscing? Well at least I didn’t end with some self-important thank you list. But to anyone who’s ever read, learned something from, disagreed with or given me any feedback on my writing — thank you.

Gabriel Dobbs is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. He may be reached at gdobbs@cornellsun.com. Smooth and Confident appears alternate Fridays this semester.