Friday I drove to Mom and Dad's home in Seattle. I started the drive with my Turkish language tape and a heart like a clenched fist. Karen called about our combined classroom, Jean called about Gleaners, and I called on my will to finish well the things that are important to me here. I didn't begin to relax until I shut off the Turkish pronunciation and found a country music station near Prosser.
Thursday Dana had asked me what I love about Walla Walla. The mediocrity of my response rather pursued me across the Columbia Plateau.
But tonight Erich and I rode our bicycles to Los Taquitos for burritos. When we passed the Baker Boyer Bank on Alder at 6:41pm, the temperature was still 95 degrees. Traffic is rarely heavy in Walla Walla, unless you get yourself caught downtown during a graduation or major wine weekend. Los Taquitos stands right next to Champ's Garage on Main across from the wrong side of the paper supply store.
With burritos in the bicycle basket, we headed home past Saint Patrick's Catholic Church. I waved at Tim--coming from the new house perhaps, plugged into his iPod--as we rode by Saint Paul's Episcopal Church. I don't think he saw me, but I'll call this week to see if he and Moira want to play pinochle.
My eighteen-year-old self, the one who promised herself a trip to Turkey, would despise or, worse, dismiss the life that I lead here now. I can only give thanks that I'm no longer a teenager and that I have learned the joys of cooking with locally grown food, collaborating on educational projects, venturing spontaneously and easily into downtown, playing trick-taking card games, sharing meals and conversation with my partner and friends, and singing along to Little Big Town's "Pontoon".
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