The Long Road to a New Home
Wednesday, February 28th, 2007The adventure began on a clear early morn in late February. I had loaded my car the night before, and I was on the road before the sun, beating out all that nasty Chicago traffic. I managed Iowa without pause, and pushed through all of Nebraska. Those two states looked all and all the same, what with their windswept fields of crackly yellow wheat, their windmills, their truckstops with the cheap gas and fried items.
Colorado was a different scene: rolling hills, still covered with snow, but more desert-like than the plains of the midwest. I arrived in Colorado Springs by evening, enjoyed a delicious dinner with the brother and his housemates. We drank yummy beers, and I reveled in their love of college life. I had forgotten how easy it is to lose yourself in that.
On Saturday, Jake and I went to something called “sector 16,” which apparently is a place you can hike, and hike we did. We went up a “trail”–a mule deer trail, all the while slipping down the scree rock. Jake promised that at the top of the peak there was a trail on the other side down. I believed him.
Then we reached the peak. We took pictures and enjoyed the pretty blue colorado sky. Then we went down. This entailed me crying, my brother coaxing me down a vertical dead tree to some rocks as I freaked out about the height and the potential of death, and then skiing down the skree rock, falling a lot. By the end, I was glad to be done, glad to have done it, and we went and ate hamburgers and milkshakes. Milkshakes make everything better.
That evening we enjoyed a very “college” experience, replete with bad blues poetry, my brother using the word hegemonic in a social setting, and a keg party full of scantily clad youngsters and reggae. I was cold. I kept what my brother has deemed my “assassin jacket” on.
On Sunday I drove. I drove and drove and drove. This drive included the town of Hartsel where you can buy delicious buffalo meat tamales made by hand by Dorothy, located directly across from the Hartsel Town Jail, which is a white building with the word “Jail,” painted in a sloppy, slanting hand.
On Monday, Lynni and I taught her children about run on sentences by very dramatically, and in one breath, recounting our story of the vegan cake that traveled on BART and was photographed. As a class, we put in punctuation, and chanted, “No Death!” to remind the children that sentences lacking periods and commas, and with too many “ands” leads to death by asphyxiation. Lynni and I continued our tradition–we enjoyed capitalism and thai food, and then I drove again. All day Tuesday I drove.
But, then, I arrived. Cori made me a delicious red Thai curry with cucumber garnish. I’m about to cook up some dumplings, cardoons, dofupi, and kaofu with Eric and Amy. Oh the Bay Area, you do not disappoint.
And now I’m here. That’s right. San Francisco prepare yourself.
And, apparently, San Francisco has, because within 24 hours I have successfully registered my car, have a social life planned for the following week, some interviews set up, and have found a delightful little sublet in the sunset, where I will move in on Monday. I get two new roommates, a big kitchen, a bedroom that has a window looking out onto a sunny atrium, a cozy but cold living room, and the stylish San Francisco bath separate from shower set up. Lucky me!
ejaeger