October 11, 2008.
the plan was to be toasting the completion our 20+ hour car journey from Eureka, CA to
Laramie,
WY by now. instead, we're plotting mischief from a sullen hotel room in
Evanston, WY (where a heavy, persistent snow is falling). our window frames the "Water Wheel Old Mill Restaurant and Tavern" (we
will be going there later). two suspicious looking fellows just delivered a missile-shaped metal box to the lobby. we're happy to be here. let us explain...
our journey - our home coming - began in earnest at 6:02 AM in
Elko, NV. Woken not by an alarm, but by the sincere intent to beat the snow and get to Laramie, we rose, showered, breakfasted,
coffeed and were on the way exactly an hour later, 7:02 Pacific Standard time.
First patch of bad snow: descending from the
Pequop summit. A brave
VW Jetta with Wyoming plates fish-tailed out of control in front of us on the sheet of ice we ourselves were gliding down. That was close. On our side, we and the WY
VW regained control, but a few west-bound travelers weren't so lucky. Across the highway divide, debris from an overturned Ford truck littered the snowy shoulder. An ambulance sat silent with lights flashing.
Needless to say, we were happy to make it to the other side:
Wendover, NV.
We thought this would be the end of the road for us after that harrowing first leg, but things cleared up enough for us to make it all the way past Salt Lake City. We were confident. We listened as our Wyoming Cowboys were slaughtered from the word "go" by the Utah Utes during
UW's homecoming (which should have been
ours as well). The color commentators (from Utah) made fun of...our colors. (Brown jerseys?! yellow helmets?) The implication was clear: our football team resembled an army of human excrement.
As we passed a snowy Park City, we reminisced about our
alma matter, the 2002 winter games (conclusion: olympics are over-rated), and looked forward to returning to
Steph's birthplace, which also happens to be where we fell in love (a long time ago for us; a relative blink of an eye in real time). We lamented the realization that this would be our last trip to the US of A during which we could masquerade as Canadians.
Destination Laramie was not to be. At least not today.
Evanston, Wyoming. It's the kind of place that encourages absurd behavior, like walking around
Wal-Mart wearing straw p
seudo-cowboy hats, jogging through a blizzard, and growing excited by the prospect of drinking a beer in the most suspect-looking bar in town.
THE OLD MILLJared did say that he doubted his courage when looking through the window before entering the bar. (The bar counter was lined with cowboy hat/flannel shirt-wearing locals and several dogs (!) ran freely inside). But God was telling us something: our hotel room overlooked the patio of this fine Wyoming establishment. It would be rude not to enter. Since about six o'clock, we witnessed grilling of (what we would find out to be) local salmon and corn taking place on the back porch of this bar. According to the barkeep (Tom), the restaurant section of the bar has been closed for a while. Nonetheless, we were promptly offered dinner upon arrival.
RUSTY'S BIRTHDAY PARTY
Tom: "Hey, kids. Let's see those
ID's. Everyone looks like kids to me... British Columbia, huh? Well, there's plenty of food over here, so help yourselves."
(
Steph) It's been a long time since I've regretted having a BC drivers license. Normally I'm so keen for people to think I'm from Canada, but not here. I had to explain immediately that Laramie is my home town. It did not have the desired effect. Even Laramie is a foreign country to this crowd. Rusty (the birthday boy) on Laramie:
with a contemptuous tone "I don't go to Laramie. I go to Mexico, but I don't go to Laramie. I don't like Laramie."
Just to give you an idea, the bar
decor included:
1. (
predictably) lots of Bud and Coors ads with girls in bikinis
2. a
jukebox
3. the most over-sized liquor bottles in one location we've ever witnessed
4. a sign that said, "if you weren't born before June 19, 1987, GET THE HELL OUT!"
5. a giant stuffed sword fish wearing a brown leather cowboy hat
6. a two-pistol, quarter
operated video game
7. Happy hour beers: $1.75
We ordered two beers (Jackson Hole's
Snake River Pale Ale) and two glasses of
Glenfiddich Scotch Whiskey (it's been a long day). Tom gladly served the beers in bottles and the scotch in two plastic 3 oz. cups: "I'm not
doin' dishes tonight." He then showed us over to the food. We took him up on his offer, as we were feeling a bit peckish. It had been about six hours since our visit to
Don Pedro's, one of the finest Mexican Cuisine establishments in town, according to Michael, the manager of the
America's Best Value Inn (he wasn't incorrect). We
opted for the corn on the cob,
macaroni salad, baked beans, grilled salmon, and Lay's Potato Chips (actually, only
Steph got the chips. Jared's will-power is iron).
One of the three dogs running free in the bar (the mangiest one, also the blindest)
yelped as we made our way back to the bar with our
Styrofoam plate (yes, we felt guilty, environmentally speaking). "We're going to have to socialize," I told Jared. We agreed,
this was what was meant to be. We were meant to stay in
Evanston. We were not meant to drive on to Laramie.
This was the homecoming. The
Old Mill was as home as we were going to get for tonight. We were determined to embrace it.
We bought the birthday boy a shot. Rusty wanted Crown. That's what he wanted. It's all he ever drinks. This was our in...we thought. We did end up
cozying up to Rusty at the bar in hopes of some hopelessly quintessential Wyoming experience. We wanted to be a part of his birthday celebration. He did appreciate the birthday shot. Well, actually, who knows? By the time he left "The Mill" with his wife he was about 7 sheets to the wind. He probably just appreciated his bed at that point. A native of
Evanston, he's been here for 52 years. We can only assume that was his age. If so, he looked pretty darn good for 52.
Jared brought up the election:
Rusty: "It pisses me off. I mean, they're
interrupting regular programming all the time for that BS."
Jared (thank goodness) didn't venture any further.
This bar felt like home in a lot of ways. We really wanted it to, in any case. After spending the day with news radio - tales from racist America, impending financial doom, nuclear power plants - we yearned for affirmation that it's not as bad as it seems. We both felt comforted (strangely) by being a part, however small and forgettable, of Rusty's birthday celebration. We were crashers, yes, but we'd like to think we gave them a story to tell. He/they certainly gave us one. It felt, at once, like home, yet the furthest thing from it . We are phonies;
impostors. We couldn't move to
Evanston and be part of this world.
Or could we?
I have to admit, it has its appeal. (and there was a moment, no, several, in the course of this outing when I was warming to the idea). In a lot of ways, things might be a little easier to comprehend. Our world might be smaller, our rent cheaper, occupations more intuitive. Rusty works in construction; his wife sells homes; Tom tends bar. I get that. Network administration? Hedge fund analysis? I'm not so sure. Besides, this was (for better or worse) a community: warm, tangible, inviting. Sure, we wouldn't be eating Ethiopian food if we moved to Evanston...or debating the merits of socialism at dinner parties...or drinking wines from the Barossa Valley. But would it matter? Would we miss it? Could we join
this world?
The one question you can count on being asked in Wyoming is: "Where ya from?" For some time now, I (Jared) haven't been sure how to respond. California? Colorado? Canada? Wyoming? I (
Steph) do look
forward, I think, to having an answer to that question. But not yet. Embrace the now. Being homeless is a rare pleasure; an invitation to observe; an exercise in introspection. I (Jared) guess I've come to think of home not as an address or a financial investment but as something more fluid. A montage of images; a meal with friends; movement in space; The Old Mill Tavern.
We're not moving to Evanston. It's too cold here, too brown, too far from an airport. Too...? But it has its appeal.
Happy fifty-second birthday, Rusty. Hope the coming year is a good one.
