What it means to say Missoula, Montana.

Hello weirdos! After a five day vacation, I’ve safely returned to the city of rain and high-velocity winds. Portland. Please get your shit together because this is terrible commuting weather. I’m currently lying in my bed trying to decompress and organize an entire week in my headspace, so bear with me.

Last Sunday night, lying next to Allison and mentally preparing for our departure, I succumbed to a terrible and confusing sadness. I was bombarded by the realization that in less than a week I would be saying goodbye to everybody I love back home. That premonition worried its way into my bloodstream and kept me awake most of that night. 

Pre-whiskey dance celebration

We still managed to leave town relatively on schedule. Equipped with 24 ounces of coffee, a Kit Kat I was goaded into buying for the low price of $.30, and one Little Debbie Nutty Bar, we were ready to tackle the open road. You guys, there’s really not much to say about driving for eight and a half hours. We ate Quizno’s sandwiches, listened to This American Life, and upheld the tradition of taking a shot at the 50,000 Silver Dollar. Because alcohol aids in navigating dark and potentially icy mountain passes.  

Me: I usually do something fruity. Lemon drops? Washington red apples?

A: Let’s have whiskey.

We made it to Missoula with only two notable episodes of white-knuckle driving.

Upon arrival it became apparent that I have no internal navigation system. My natural sense of direction has always been shoddy at best, and my brain seems capable of storing only one cityscape at a time. We had decided to spend the first night with my friends Julia and Morgan. I lived in Ju’s northside apartment for three weeks the winter I was homeless. During that time I watched a lot of movies, drank a lot of whiskey, and read the Hunger Games trilogy. That apartment took on surreal dimensions in my mind, elevated as an idealistic sanctuary. But pulling up to that building everything seemed foreign and daunting.

Why must I grow up to be Rosie O'Donnell?

Everything shifted back into place when we walked through that door. Ju and Morg greeted us with hugs, PBR, and heaping bowls of homemade beef stew. The next several hours were a slow unfurling; sinking back into an old place as a new human. We ate, and drank, and watched Now & Then, remembering how we all wanted to be beautiful and fucked up like Roberta. Except Morg.

Me: What did you do without a t.v. to babysit you?

Mo: We used to stand outside and watch for cars, and when they got close we’d yell “WIBS!” and drop to the ground until they passed.

Me: Oh. Of course.

Two movies, several drinks, and one half-hearted game of Uno later Mo and Ju wrestled out an air mattress and tucked us in for the night. Since they were leaving the next day to spend the holiday with family, Ju let us borrow her apartment for the duration of the trip.

Ju is a lovely and hospitable human being.

We woke slowly Tuesday morning, well after our friends snuck off to work. After ample lolling and showers, we decided breakfast would be a good place to start. [Confession: my itinerary for our trip focused pretty exclusively on eating. Once a fat kid, always a fat kid.]

Over coffee and chilequiles, we caught up with Lo and plotted the next several days. Activities included seeing friends, seeing family, and seeing Catching Fire again because Jennifer Lawrence. There’s more, of course. There’s always more. Cursive handwriting lessons, red wine and nachos, the Turkey Trot. But the majority of our trip felt like an extended dream sequence wherein your spirit guide utilizes the word “fuck” with gusto, and insists on eating an inordinate amount of Mexican food. Hint: I was the spirit guide.

It’s jarring to see your hometown through somebody else’s eyes and realize how many ghosts there are; a whole town heavy with yesterdays. Driving through Missoula I handed Allison stories like Polaroid photographs to prove I was there. To explain why it mattered. The basement apartment. The church. The pitch. That bar. The sunspot where I muddled through crosswords and early spring. The river trail we ran Sunday mornings. Everything in retrospect embodies a tender nostalgia, like a shoebox full of old love notes.

But there’s more honesty in the stories we hold back. The bookstore full of stolen kisses and palm-reading. The street corner. The bar alley. The coffee shop laden with parallel universes. I don’t know how to talk about these things without sacrificing their integrity. Maybe someday, but not yet. Thank you for being patient with my silences.

Now it’s Sunday, one week after the heaviness settled. I said my goodbyes. This morning over coffee with a friend, I sunk back into some state of normalcy and hoped she wouldn’t notice my loose edges. I couldn’t tell her about my grandpa’s stroke last year, or how his hands shook when he poured my second mug of coffee yesterday morning. So we discussed road conditions, Thanksgiving feasts, how children have a tendency to become real human beings. I don’t know where to go from here except back to Real Life.

To my friends and family in Missoula: I miss you all so much more than you know.

To my friends in Portland: thank you for becoming my new home. 

To the random creeper who found this blog post via Google: Sorry I’m not sorry. I lied about the puppy pictures.

Many miles of love.

-b