The Salt Flats

The Salt Flats

1.30.2011

A couple of years out of college I got an invitation to a wedding from one of my best friends from high school, Maggie. It was my first friend to get married, and my first wedding that I wasn’t going to be a flower girl in. I was so excited, there was no question if I would go or not. Now, sometimes it is a question. I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but other people’s weddings can be a real pain in the ass. These days when I get invited to a wedding, my first thought is, Well there goes six hundred dollars I’ll never see again. (Just kidding people, keep inviting me to your weddings please – your second and third ones even.)

No, in all seriousness, I love weddings. Especially when you get to go home with someone. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.

The wedding was in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Before I even had a chance to look for flights, I got a call from Doug, another good friend from high school, and he had a plan. He told me that Brett, one of my biggest high school crushes, was going to fly to San Francisco to meet us and we would all drive to Steamboat together. I don’t know why Doug thought this was a good idea, as mapquest said it was a twenty one hour drive, and I can tell you right now there is no way I would have gone if it was just going to be me and Doug. Doug was known for snowballing himself into one ridiculous situation after another, and yet somehow none of them were his fault, and everyone else was to blame. I asked where we would stop to get some sleep mid drive, and he said that wouldn’t be necessary. I figured he’d crash and give in at some point, so I didn’t argue. But really, none of these minor details mattered to me, and I pretended he had to talk me into it. I already knew I would be traveling by car, not plane, to make it to Steamboat, because my biggest not-so-secret and ultimately unrequited high school crush would be in that car too.

We picked Brett up from the airport early Thursday morning, and our twenty seven, not twenty one, hour drive began.

First we took a detour through Tahoe, a stop that Doug had neglected to tell us about. He had to return some ski poles he’d borrowed from a friend, and more importantly, pick up some weed.

We get back on the road and the boys roll a joint and start smoking it in the car, and I have my window down trying to suck in the fresh air, petrified of getting contact high. Brett passes out again in the back seat, Doug and I start our first of about eighteen coffees and red bulls each. Six hours out of Tahoe and we are flying high. Six more hours and it’s a quarter to crack o’clock. Brett’s gets up and joins us on our way to crack town. Stopping at a hotel was going to be unnecessary now, and in my caffeine high I couldn’t believe I’d ever suggested it. I make a new suggestion – more red bull.

We stop at some creepy truck stop with a convenience store attached. There are numbers being called out by some shitty PA system. They’re also being displayed on an old TV monitor. Some DMV-like system was in place so we walked closer to the truck stop section and there are people waiting their turn to take a shower. It was obviously for the truckers to use during their long drives, but I wondered if anyone passing through could take a number. Either way, we high tailed it out of there but not before getting a new batch of red bulls and Starbucks espressos, munchies for Cheech and Chong, and a Best of the 80’s CD on clearance for $3.79. We listened to Life Is a Highway sixty four times throughout the rest of the drive.

As I’m sure you may have guessed, somewhere along the way (okay, immediately after he got into the car), I had started crushing on Brett all over again. And it was the exact same crush feeling I’d had in high school, butterflies and constant giggling included. I started being really silly and dorky - making stupid jokes, stealing his hat, poking him - I couldn’t help myself! But this time it was different – it became clear that this time my crush was reciprocated. Somewhere in an alternate universe, High School Molly was giving me a shout out.

Anyway, by the twenty third hour of the drive, we were high on caffeine, certifiably insane, and loving every minute of it.

So we finally get to this nice little suburban neighborhood somewhere in Colorado, where we’re staying with Doug’s friend for the night before heading to Steamboat. We’re on our 27^th hour, and it’s 7:30 in the morning. We’re circling the streets, going next to zero miles an hour, trying to find the house number. There are kids riding bikes on the sidewalks, moms watering their rose bushes, dads mowing the lawn. Doug rolls down my window, leans over me and motions for one of the lawn mowing men to come over. I try to hide as he asks for directions, and we get the hell out of dodge before we get the cops called on us. We finally reach our destination, and within minutes are all passed out in Doug’s friend’s living room. After twenty seven hours, all we have to show for ourselves are empty cans of redbull, double shot Starbucks espressos, six crumpled McDonalds bags, sunflower seed shells, half a joint, a speeding ticket (my first!), and a partridge in a pear tree.

The next morning we drive to Steamboat Springs. On the way over we realize we have no hotel reservation. So we arrive college-style, expecting everything to just work out for us and fall into place – fast forward six years, I realize how important wedding etiquette is, and that when the bride-to-be calls, you don’t tell her that you forgot to make a reservation and you may not have a place to stay. Fortunately, Maggie is one of the most laid back people I know, and said not to worry about it, she’d call the hotel and get us a room. Five minutes later the four of us were unpacking in a perfect one bedroom, one bath, with kitchenette room.

The next morning we went to breakfast and, duh, started drinking, an obvious choice the morning of a wedding. We met up with even more Hong Kong friends and the overexcitement was getting to all of us. We lost track of time (or got drunk), and showed up late to the wedding, interrupting the ceremony trying to slowly open the two wooden doors of the church. Yeah, they’re not the quietest of doors. Again, fast forward some years and slap some social skills on me and that hasn’t happened since. Just saying.

Anyway, the wedding was amazing. And the reception…spectacular. We took gondolas up to the top of a mountain just before sunset. The view was incredible. I think because it was one of all of our first weddings, we were more excited about the free food and drinks coming our way than the celebration of love, but we still recognized that this was something special. Our little Hong Kong crew beamed with Hong Kong pride when Maggie came by to thank us all for coming.

And I’m afraid it’s all fuzzy from there. Not fuzzy from the alcohol but fuzzy like a dream (oh just wait, I get even cheesier). But I remember wearing Brett’s jacket, and have the clearest picture of me in it in my head. Wearing his jacket made it look like we went together, like we were a pair. And that’s exactly what we were that night. He didn’t leave my side all night (or I didn’t or wouldn’t leave his – semantics). Either way, we were glued to each other. And, well, I’m pretty sure that we were the first people to leave. Grandparents had a later night than we. I remember hearing music and singing (possibly Doug on stage with the band?) in the background as Brett and I left hand in hand.

The next morning I got a few sideways glances and knowing smiles, but our early departure and sweet flirtations paled in comparison to the night Doug had had. All attention shifted to him as he told us that he, too, had reconnected with someone from high school, although I don’t think they were playing out any teenage fantasies they’d had of each other so much as just playing out a drunk hook up. The girl Doug went home with was at the wedding with her parents, who were good friends with Maggie’s parents. Well mid hook up, her mom came to the door. Doug grabbed his clothes, slipped onto the balcony, crawled over to the edge on the street side and hung there, sixty feet up and naked. When her parents eventually left, he crawled back up and got the hell out of dodge. He must have done something right though because he got a voicemail the next day from her that said, thanks for last night. Very romantic.

Hungover as all hell, we packed up the car and were Bay Area bound. On our way through Wyoming we started seeing signs for fireworks. Unable to pass this up, we stopped at one of the makeshift stores and apparently it was the right one ‘cause they had everything. We all bought at least a hundred dollars worth of loot, wondering where and when the hell we’d be able to use it all. Funnily enough, that time would very soon come.

Hours later, somewhere in Utah, Doug reads aloud a sign he sees: “Bonneville Salt Lake Flats Speedway”. I’d never heard of this place before but it was basically hundreds of miles of absolutely nothing. It was once a lake that dried up and left a bunch of salt, or something to that effect. Doesn’t sound all too exciting and I really didn’t think it was, but this was the perfect place for two boys to drive as fast as they could and do donut after donut. Poor little rental car never saw this coming. Soon we discovered that under the salt was a shit ton of mud. After one too many donuts, the car started spinning on its wheels. We pushed the car, we laid clothes underneath the wheels to try to get traction, but to no avail – we were officially stuck. It was one in the morning, pitch black out, and triple A wouldn’t come look for us because of where we were. And because we didn’t know where we were. All we could tell them was somewhere in the middle of the salt flats.

Turns out somewhere in the middle of the salt flats is a pretty cool place to be when you have a bunch of fireworks and some warm beers in the trunk. We set off about half of the fireworks and explosives we’d bought that day, and watched the sky light up with our stupidity. We eventually got a couple of hours of sleep in the car, and woke up to the most breathtaking surroundings, surroundings we hadn’t seen the night before. It looked like freshly fallen snow surrounded us for miles and miles. Snow or salt, it was beautiful.

Well two hours and three hundred dollars later, we’re sitting in our car being pulled back to the road by a snow cat because the tow truck got stuck on the salt on its way to rescue us. We don’t look back as we drive away.

We stopped in Reno after the Salt Flats, deciding to press our luck. We got back to the Bay Area mid day Friday, and emptied our Reno winnings (two fluffy giant pink die and about six human sized stuffed animals) onto the front lawn of my parents’ house, beaming with pride. Brett was in town for one more night before he headed back to Boston, and we met up with some other of our Hong Kong high school friends who lived in the area. We went to a bar in the city and played pool and had some drinks. I drove in with my friend Tori and told her all about the trip, namely my rekindled gigantic sized crush. She was giddy along with me, talking about every detail like a couple of teenagers. And that’s exactly what we were - Tori and I, and Brett and I – a couple of teenagers having the time of their lives. Ah, to be young and in love…!

The boys were already at the bar when we got there. Doug and Brett and I all looked at each other like we were all in on a secret that no one else could understand, even if we wanted them to.

We were playing pool and drinking beers and Rishi and I started talking. He asked about the wedding and our trip and I filled him in with the missing parts of Doug’s rendition. So you had a good time, he asked. A really good time, I told him. He smiled and nodded. What, I asked, what are you smiling at?

“Well I knew you had a good time – Brett just said to me, ‘I think I fell in love with Molly this weekend’”.

They were the most beautiful words I’d ever heard.

I also took the fact that someone falling in love with me in three days spoke very highly of my personality, looks and indelible charm, overall self.

And although these words would do rhythmic gymnastics in my head for the next few years, they would also open a door in my mind whose sign said, Keep Shut. I didn’t want my thoughts to go wild with all of the what ifs that went with hearing someone was as mutually taken with you as you were with them, especially when that someone lived on the other side of the country. We said goodbye and he was off…

I was high on life for the next, I don’t know, forever? For months I walked around with a smile on my face, and if not on my face then hiding right behind it taking a little smile nap. I know it sounds lame to say or think this when you’re only twenty three but for the first time in my life I felt alive, or at least more alive than I’d felt before.

I spent weeks making a shadow box for Brett, the most intricate and well designed project I had ever completed. My mom helped me with it, like she’d helped me and my brother make replicas of California missions when we were in second grade. We lined the box with the map we’d used to get from San Francisco to Boulder, cutting out landmarks we’d passed and putting them places on the box that would highlight them. When it was finished I went crazy wrapping, boxing and taping that sucker up, making sure the cut out picture people of me, Doug and Brett wouldn’t fall over on their way to Boston. I imagined Brett examining all the detailed touches and craftsmanship of my work before putting the shadow box somewhere in his living room to be prominently displayed.

For the record, I will never agree to a road trip that long again. The three of us made the worst possible combination of people to get in a car with, but that trip was one of the best couple days of my life. For some reason the combination of the people, timing, occasion and our pasts all collided, joined hands and danced around in a circle singing. Dare I say that the stars aligned themselves just for us? (Hey, don’t say I didn’t warn you.) But seven years later, and I still can’t help but think there was something magical about that trip…

But was telling it worth not getting invited to any more weddings???

Act Natural

A couple of years ago I developed a syndrome, or came down with something, I’m not really sure what it was or what you would call it, but somehow I developed this raging, in your face, unfading amount of self-confidence. Sounds like a good thing, right? It was in a way, but when I think back on it, it looks a little more like what doctors would call “mania” or a “manic episode” – and this one in particular lasted a couple of years.

This lengthy mania had its own set of individual manic episodes, or IMAs, that were triggered by visits from and visits to my best friends from high school. When we would get together, we were a little out of control. Our happiness and excitement was through the roof. So much so that we were unable to hang out with any “outsiders” when we were together because we were scary and intimidating (well no one ever said that to us, but we figured that would be the case so we never tried).

One of my favorite IMAs of all time was a weekend in LA visiting one of my high school friends, Anna. She picked me up from LAX on a Friday evening. Driving back to her house, we were squealing and shrieking and screaming with joy, talking a mile a minute and not hearing anything we said to each other, just how it always was for the first three hours of a visit. We drove to her house, and immediately started getting ready for the night.

Within minutes, her apartment was destroyed. I was emptying the contents of my weekend bag directly onto the floor. As usual, I had way over packed, having brought six outfits to choose from for the one night we were going out. Anna was furiously pulling clothes out of her drawers and closet, trying to find the perfect outfit. The floor was a patchwork of tank tops and jeans, both in a multitude of colors and sizes. For every third clothing item there was a square of carpet, just enough to fit a tip toe.

We finally call a cab and down our last beers before heading out. We’re going to the Standard in downtown LA, a hotel with a rooftop bar. When our cab pulls in front of the hotel, I see a long line of people waiting to get in. I tell Anna to look at the line, and she tells me we’re not waiting in line – we’re going straight to the front. My heart immediately starts pounding. “We’re not going to the front of the line, I refuse to get denied in front of all these people”. We get out of the cab. “We won’t get denied – just act natural”.

Those two words, act natural, suddenly paralyzed me: how the hell do you do that?

Suddenly my mania was stripped, my confidence sucked right out of me with an unstoppable, rebel force. I became acutely aware of my every movement, what every limb of my body was doing, what face I was making, and what I was looking at. Being ordered to act natural broke me down into this uncomfortable, awkward mess.

What does acting natural look like? Maybe I could copy someone else, someone in the line who I think looks natural. Or just copy someone, anyone, who looks like they fit in, or even one who seems comfortable that they don’t.

Should I act busy and preoccupied or cool and calm? Should I talk and laugh, or be a cool, mysterious quiet? Do I try to fit in, or stand out? Be the center of attention, or blend in with the crowd? Was it laughing loudly, or being too cool to talk? Is it cooler to check everyone out from head to toe with an icy stare, or is it cooler to smile? Should I be on the phone, or be in the moment? Was being natural really being anything at all?

And everyone there seemed kind of scared of each other, scared of locking eyes, of someone seeing through us. Scared of being caught, scared of trying to copy something we can’t pull off. I knew for certain that I definitely wasn’t fooling anyone that night - I couldn’t even fool myself. I was yelling at myself in my head, Can’t you just act like a normal, human girl? But I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried.

I come back to the moment and realize Anna is watching my eyes dart around, watching me fold and unfold my arms, pull something out of my purse, then put it back. “What the hell are you doing”, she asks. I can only answer honestly: “I have no idea”.

We burst out laughing.

“Well whatever that was, stop it – that wasn’t natural at all!

She looks at me again and tells me to go back to how I usually am, that never mind, I was good before. Turns out trying to act natural is the most unnatural thing to do.

It was hard to shake that off right away, my attempt at acting natural, so when we walk past the line and straight up to the bouncers, Anna leads the way. “Are you staying at the hotel tonight”, one of them asks Anna. “No”, she answers. “Can I see your IDs?” We give him our IDs, and he welcomes us in. And just like that, we are two of the chosen ones.

Anna grabs my arm as we get on the escalator that takes us up to the club. My confidence fully restored, mania ensues. All is right in my world.

We are screaming and squealing, We got in, we got in, oh my god, we got in! We are not quiet, and we’re certainly not cool. But without a doubt, we’re natural.

“Did you hear what they said to the girls behind us? They asked them if they were staying in the hotel and they said no, and the bouncer said, Sorry, only hotel guests tonight!”

Ah, the poor unnaturals.

And of course we had an amazing night. We were fearless and unafraid. We acted like we owned the place.

I’m not always as bold in public these days, but I have my moments. And still when I get together with my oldest, closest friends, my mania flares up with a vengeance. But I think a little mania is a good thing. Just as long as it’s natural.

The Church Store

A couple of years ago I was back home in Walnut Creek, going to get Starbucks with my dad. We passed by our local Safeway and Blockbuster, the same ones we’d passed a million times in my childhood. My dad nodded his head towards the opposite side of the street and pointed: “Do you remember the church store?”

When I was growing up, my dad used to take me and my older brother to church every Sunday. My mom stayed home with my baby brother and sister, but she wasn’t Catholic so she wouldn’t have gone anyway. I still don’t know why we went at all because the only time my dad is religious is when we would have friends over for dinner and he would ask them to lead us in saying grace, after asking that we all join hands. After enjoying the horrified face of our friend he would burst into laughter, saying, “You should have seen your face!” Nonetheless, we got into our Sunday’s best and headed to Saint Isadore.

On the way to church, we would take my dad’s government work car, an IROC Camaro, which was strictly forbidden for personal use, especially with family members. We would drive down our main neighborhood street and my dad would use the car’s public address system to talk to an unsuspecting morning walker on the street: “Excuse me, ma’am, we don’t allow spandex in this area, take your skintight pants to another neighborhood” – and then we’d zoom off.

Down on one of the main roads of our town, all of the sudden he would start furiously swerving the car from right and left, saying there was a family of ants crossing the street and we’d almost hit them. Finally one day we got pulled over. I heard the sirens and was scared as anything, but my dad sure wasn’t – he almost looked like he was looking forward to this, like he was excited about it. Meanwhile, I thought he was going to get arrested – I thought we were all going to get arrested. “License and registration please”. My dad gets his wallet out of the glove box. “Is there a reason you were swerving your vehicle sir?” “Officer, I swear I saw something in the road, it was like a flash, there one second and then gone.” “So you had to keep swerving repeatedly?” “There were tons of them, lots of flashes.” “Right”. My dad opens his wallet and starts going through his cards and the contents one by one, until he reaches his US Customs identification and – “Is that a badge?” “Why yes sir, it is”. And just as if he’d stopped us to tell us he liked our car – “You have a nice day sir”. It was the coolest thing ever! We swerved all the way to church.

When we first started going, we would get there on time to get a good seat, and we’d sit close to the front and move into the center of the pew so others could move in easily and fill the aisle. None of us ever listened to a single sermon, not even my dad. He was too busy trying to make us laugh. He would squeeze that part of your leg right above your knee that tickles and makes your knee jerk. When everyone sang hymns together, he wouldn’t sing the words but would make some god awful noise that he somehow made blend into the music.

About half way through mass, there is a “Pleased to meet you” exchange between everyone, where you turn to the people in front of and behind you, and the ones on your right and left, and shake their hand and say, “Pleased to meet you”. I remember thinking this was an odd place for an introduction, why wouldn’t they have everyone shake hands when we first got there? But my dad finally told me that it was “Peace be with you”, not “Pleased to meet you”. Personally I thought “Pleased to meet you” made so much more sense – you were shaking hands after all, even if it wasn’t in the beginning of mass. Whether I was pleased or peace, I didn’t like that part of church because kids don’t shake hands, at least they don’t want to, but you’d have some old man with sweaty palms reach his hand over to you, and you had to shake it. Of course this served as more amusement for my dad.

Nearing the end of our church-going days, we would get there late, stand in the back for fifteen minutes, and then leave. Sometimes my dad would even let my brother and me go to the playground outside while he stepped into church just to duck out five minutes later. When we did stand in the back with him and our required fifteen minutes were up, he would give us both a look that said, Let’s get the hell out of here. And we did.

One of the main reasons I was so happy that we started leaving early was because we would miss communion. Communion is when you all file out of the pews and walk up to the priest standing at the front of the church and he hands out a thin flat white circular wafer. The wafer represents The Body of Christ. The priest blesses it, raises it above your head and says, The Body of Christ, and you would then say Amen. I wasn’t sure if it was a question or not, it sounded like he was asking if you wanted it, like, “The Body of Christ?” So in case he was asking, I would nod my head just enough so he would know I was giving him an answer and not being rude, but not enough that my dad could see and ask why I was nodding. One of the things you have to do to as a Catholic is have your First Holy Communion. You had to take some class for it at the church on Saturdays, so I was already mad at it. I thought Sunday and Sunday only was God’s day. Anyway, as our First Holy Communion approached, we had a practice run in our class. One of the teachers gave us each a “Body of Christ” and we were all supposed to take it. They instructed us to let it dissolve in our mouths. I didn’t like the sound of that. So we all placed the wafers in our mouths, and about seven seconds later the whole class had turned to me, staring in horror. I had vomited all over my desk, and on my First Holy Communion lesson book. It wasn’t so much the taste, it didn’t really taste like much of anything, but after I put the wafer on my tongue, it didn’t start dissolving like they’d said, instead it got stuck to the roof of my mouth and held on for dear life. Since I was already a chronic vomiter (every dentist visit), it was no surprise to me that this happened. But I didn’t understand how I was the only one. I’ll never forget the look in everyone’s eyes, especially the teachers’, like I had stood up and said I hated God. I guess in a way this was worse - I had literally rejected the body of Christ.

So of course that was the first of many times I threw up in the name of the lord. The second time was at home. The teachers gave my parents some wafers to take home so I could practice again. I remember thinking how messed up that was, Hey, here’s something that makes you puke, go ahead and have some in your free time at home! I mean I had to go to the dentist, but did I have to do this? So I threw up in my parents’ bathroom with the first take home wafer, and they knew that practice time was over. Now we concentrated all efforts on preparing me for my First Holy Communion with different techniques, like visualization tips, thoughts on different placements of the wafer in my mouth. I could hear them pleading in their heads, Please just get through it this once without puking, please please please. We had relatives from out of town coming to this event! I didn’t want to puke just as much as they didn’t want me to, but we all knew it wasn’t looking good.

I don’t remember anything that happened in the hours leading up to my First Holy Communion, I probably blacked out from nerves and fear. Was I going to throw up all over the church floor? On one of my classmates? Or God forbid, the priest??? All were fair game. I’m sure my parents were dreading this moment more than I was – everyone would see that it was their child that housed the devil! My true identity would be revealed for all to see!

It was time. The line was forming. I was getting closer to my religious fate. Was I with God, or against him? I approached the priest: “The Body of Christ?” Well, actually, no thank you, but I did my mini nod and took the wafer in my sweaty hands. I don’t think I’d ever had sweaty hands before, and I’d like to think that they were trying to help me out that day, telling me to quickly pretend to put the wafer in my mouth and they’ll dissolve it themselves. But alas, their message didn’t register in time, and I put the wafer in my mouth, and turned to walk back to my seat. Did I make it? I did. I made it back to my seat and through the rest of the First Holy Communion Mass.

And the second it was over, I went to the bathroom and threw up. The wafer had sat on the roof of my mouth for the last ten minutes of the mass, and then finally started to fall apart and drop down to my tongue just seconds before I made it to the bathroom. The feeling of it falling apart, all slimy and soft, was worse than it being stuck to the roof of my mouth. But somehow I managed to make it through. I don’t think my parents have ever been prouder.

I continued to throw up pretty much every Sunday for the rest of my church going career. Sometimes in the church bathroom, sometimes on the black concrete of the parking lot, and one time in the entrance area/foyer of the church. Only a couple of people ever saw me throwing up, since after communion people went back to their seats while I hightailed it to the exit with a mouth full of puke. I remember a few times my dad would see me gagging, trying to hold it in until I found a clear area to spew, and while I was trying to hold in vomit, he was trying to hold in laughter. He can finally laugh about it in front of me today, and he and my brother like to do imitations of me – “The Body of Christ – hooooeeeh”(puking noise).

The good thing about all of this? Well I’m sure it’s no coincidence that after months of continuous vomiting, that’s when we started to leave church early. Right before communion, of course. So we’d be standing in the back, my brother and I waiting for the telling look from my dad letting us know it was go time, and the three of us would sneak out the door. My dad would try to wait until the very beginning of communion so we could duck out quietly and unnoticed while people were getting up from their seats to line up. But sometimes we just left any old time.

The second the church doors had closed behind us, my dad knew what was coming. It was the same question every week: “Are we going to the church store?” And always the same answer: “Of course we are”.

The church store was our reward for going to (a fifteen minute) mass. I’ve never looked forward to anything as much in my life. It was a candy and snack store – every kid’s dream. We spent more time in the church store than we did in church, going from counter to counter trying to decide on our treat. We could only pick one item (in addition to a soft drink), and on special occasions, two (I’m imagining my First Holy Communion was a twofer deal). I was always scared I was going to pick the wrong thing and regret it later, like pick Cool Ranch Doritos instead of grape Big League Chew or Fun Dip, and I’d have to wait another week to fix my mistake. Sometimes we’d get Nerds, which were strictly prohibited in our house because they got stuck in the carpet, but I would occasionally pretend I’d forgotten that rule and ask my dad if I could get them, to which he’d reply, “Just don’t tell Mom”. The church store was a magical place, our own childhood heaven.

Slowly our church trips became shorter and shorter, and with the end of church came the end of the church store. Of course we’d go to many other candy stores in our lives, but for some reason the church store was always my favorite. And while I missed it, I realize now that what I really missed were those times with my dad. It was never about church or candy, it was about getting to hang out with him. My dad spent all his free time with us growing up, but there was something special about those first few hours every Sunday – the illegal, crazy car rides, laughing in church, sneaking out early, picking out unauthorized treats. We were breaking innocent childhood rules, and it felt great. For a moment in time, we ruled the world.

So we’re in my dad’s car and I’m looking at the church store. My favorite place as a kid was, in fact, a tiny old beat up liquor store, sitting between a dry cleaner and a Chinese restaurant. I thought maybe that should make me sad, that what I remembered to be the gateway to heaven was really just an old hole in the wall that sold cigarettes and beer. But it didn’t. I actually started smiling.

“Of course I remember the church store”.