Marcel Winatschek

California, Here We Come

I was completely devoted to The O.C., California. Wednesday nights were sacred, Saturday afternoons the same. I had the DVDs, all the soundtracks. It was just… everything to me.

The fantasy was simple: you’d imagine Sandy Cohen adopting you, you’d imagine cruising Newport Beach with Seth, kissing Marissa at sunset and then realizing Summer was way cooler, or maybe Taylor—that completely insane girl who took over when Marissa died. The show sold you a version of California you desperately wanted to believe in.

That house—the actual place where they filmed it all—is on the market now. Newport Beach, six bedrooms, 5.5 million euros. You could buy it.

But you can’t buy what it meant. The house is still there, the pool is exactly the same, all the rooms are waiting. What’s gone is the feeling of being eighteen and wanting something you couldn’t have. You can own the building now. You’ll never own that hunger. California, here we come—except you arrived, and it’s just a house.