10 REASONS WHY MONTANA HAS EVERYTHING YOU'VE EVER WANTED

1. Scenic views FOR DAYS

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then Montana is a tome. Pristine mountains, rivers, lakes, fields, hills, YOU NAME IT. Montana has it all. Take advantage of this spectacle before returning to your mediocre and bland mid-west scenery. (You’ll want to remember that mental picture of rolling hills when you’re driving down a flat country road surrounded by corn.)

2. Get out from behind your phone

The power of the Montana landscape will make you want to take all the photos you possibly can, but is best experienced without an iPhone. Sit. Look. Breathe. Listen. The mountain air breezes through your ears and your mind will be at ease. It’s powerful. You can take a photo, you can try to capture what you’re feeling, and you can post it online, but they won’t get it. Those 170 followers of yours will just think, “There she goes again with those melodramatic words”. Best just to avoid the whole situation and soak in that moment sans technology.

3. Find some actual stress relief

With over 55 state parks and two National Parks, you can hike, bike, and paddle your way through Montana. Try out Lake McDonald in Glacier National Park. Carved by glaciers over a thousand years, this beautiful lake has stunning scenery and is home to an immaculate amount of wildlife and plants. Go out for a solo kayak trip and get the view every influencer wishes they could get. Don’t worry about getting into the zone where the clerk told you not to go if you’re not an experienced kayaker. Your weak-ass arms won’t handle it, but you’ll get a great Instagram post out of it. (Because living the life you want doesn’t mean anything unless you can share it online!)

4. Hike the hills

Missoula is home to lots of hiking trails, but the classic hike for locals and visitors alike it the M Trail. Unbeknownst to you, it’s actually much harder than it seems. Switchback after switchback, huff and puff your way up to the giant M. You’ll be passed by people, lots of people actually, including women in their 70s, but you’ll be rewarded once you finally reach the top. You’ll contemplate your horrible Ohio lungs and out-of-shape physique, but tell yourself that maybe you’ll change.

5. Indulge in things that are worth it!

Did you know Montana has the second-highest breweries per capita in the United States? And Missoula is the IT city to drink too much and reminisce about a life you never had. Try Kettlehouse Brewery, where you call your mom while you probably have had too much to drink and feel those eyes well-up upon the thought of moving across the country. You want to do it, but at the same time, you don’t. But there’s a solution for that… the Hellgate Honey Hefeweizen. They also have plastic dinosaurs for the kiddos, but you and your drunk friend can play with them too. 3 drink max.

6. Bring a friend or two

You can sit alone in several different breweries (and you will) but it’s always more enjoyable when you share in the fun! You’ll beg and plead. How hard is it to convince others to come to Montana? Turns out, a lot harder than you originally thought. But congratulations! You’ve convinced your friends to come with you to Missoula. You’ll talk about it for months and you’ll get the feeling that they don’t really give a shit about it. You’ll try and convince them of its grandeur, but you may be alone in this fight to convince the world that Montana is simply the best. Just succumb to the fact that no one has taste like you!

7. Take the road less traveled

The state of Montana has over 69,000 miles of road. Take a scenic drive while completely over-contemplating your life and your decisions. The road goes on for days! You can keep driving, past your exit and without a destination while tears slowly drape across your cheeks. Why are you crying? Who knows and who cares! Put on that sad girl music and hit the road.

8. Find that perfect spot

Montana has beautiful sights around every corner. There are bustling rivers where you can watch the surfers ride against the currents, perfectly placed benches in front of grand mountains, and that one special spot just above the railroad tracks that you come across after stumbling out of a brewery. The sun will be setting and the trains have already stopped for the evening, creating long shadows against the chain-link fence. The rails disappear into the mountains and you’ll be entranced! Stay as long as you want. Because not a lot of things make you happy anymore, but if this industrial wasteland brings you happiness, then get it, girl.

9. Perfect place to go when you’re depressed about your actual reality

Oh, you millenial! You’ll never be satisfied!

10. You can pretend it’s the life you’ve always dreamed of

Even though there’s no possible way to ever find your perfect life if you haven’t lived it yet.

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Tell us your hopeless dreams and we’ll tell you which American city you should move to

SANDY

Sandy Ann, Sandoline, Sandra.

I had a lot of nicknames for you. Not that you ever came to any of them; you marched to the beat of your own drum. Even in your last few hours, as we tried to drag you into the car to go to the vet, you wouldn’t budge. Fuck you, assholes, I know where you’re taking me. The fact that we were all crying most likely tipped you off.

I should have taken you on more walks. I should have spent more time with you. I should have taken more photos. I already did all of those things, but now that you’re gone, there’s the flood of regrets that come flowing through my mind. I wanted to take pictures of you over these last few days, knowing they would be the last. You, all cuddled up, looked so cute and comfortable. But I know that below your fluffy layer of golden fur, laid a broken body in pain and I couldn't bear having the photos to remember that. The cancer took over you with a fiery force. Before we knew that anything was wrong, the sickness had already taken you over. We only had 10 days between your diagnosis and now.

It’s unfair, I know. It unfair we didn’t have enough time with you. It’s unfair that you died on your 10th birthday. It’s unfair that someone like you can become so ingrained in our lives and for you to be ripped away the way that you did. It’s hard to get over the image of your last days. No longer were we able to play with you. We would never see you again, sitting on your back legs and putting your paws up for attention. You did this recently to me, and you held on for much longer than usual. Little did I know this would have been the last time. Your spirit had been torn away and we learned the hard way that it was time to say goodbye. We loaded you up in the car, your frail body standing in the cold. You curled up in the back. I kissed you on the forehead and scratched you under the chin, your favorite spot. I patted you gently and was surprised at how soft you still were.

You made a big difference in a lot of lives. Sick people in hospitals looked forward to your visit every week, as well as making a second-grade class very happy as they told you stories. You were even the star in the local production of Annie. Not to mention that you completely saved my very depressed dad. And you rarely complained. You hated Wrigley, my brother’s insufferable dog, just as much as we did, but you were a champ about it. You were there when we didn’t know we needed you. You loved going to the beach. You loved long walks. Always bouncing up and down, with your furry little butt wiggling behind you. You gave good cuddles and kisses, only when necessary. You never barked and greeted everyone like they were a friend. You smiled all the time. It’s an overused trope, but you were a very good dog. I will miss everything about you.

Rest easy, Sandy Ann, Sandoline, Sandra.

ATLANTIC CITY

I will take a shower for the first time since Richmond. I am supposed to share this hotel room, but I will take all the shampoos and soaps for myself.

I will meet two men who hate their jobs with passion. But in order for me to do my job, they will have to do theirs. We will count hundreds of t-shirts together. We’ll count CDs and books and koozies. I will not care as much, as this is our last show. I will leave everything in their care.

I will go down to the casino floor. I will lose $50. I will get flustered when the scantily clad waitress asks what I want to drink. I will order a Miller Lite. I will forget that casinos give out free alcohol and I will regret my decision to order a Miller Lite.

I will cash out with a .15 cent balance.

I will go to the buffet where the staff eats. I will feel out of place because I am not wearing a uniform. I will get fried shrimp even though I hate seafood. Everyone I know will have to leave, and I will eat by myself. I will go back in line for French fries.

I will wander throughout the casino. I will buy a magnet that looks like a martini glass. I will go on to the bus, which became home over the course of a couple of weeks. I will take pictures of myself in the mirror. I will try to organize the rest of the merchandise that I stashed in various places. I will get lonely and go back into the casino.

I will get stopped in the hallway. I will be asked, “Do you want to two-step, sweet girl?”  I will get an impromptu dance lesson backstage. I will smile because I made connections with people I never thought would be a part of my life.

I will forget all their names.

I will drink bourbon and ginger ale behind the scenes. I will be called out to the stage by a man who stars on a TV show that will get canceled. I will bow with a cast, a band, and a crew. I will laugh. I will be happy. I will find a picture of all of us on Twitter.

I will haphazardly throw what’s left of the t-shirts into a box. I will fill out the forms and I will get a check that I will forget to take to the bank for a few days. I will say goodbye to the two men who hate their jobs and I will never see them again.

I will raid the dressing rooms for alcohol that I will put in the private stash that I have been building for 18 days. I will sit in the back lounge, drinking beer and doing paperwork. I will try to stay up, but I will fall asleep in Delaware and will wake up in Virginia.

It will be raining. I will be sad because this will be over. I will never have this experience again.

But I will take a t-shirt to make me feel better.

I will stare out the window. I will listen to the sound of the rainy highway. I will hear the sounds of the crew in the front of the bus. I will be mad when the toilet breaks, filling the tight space with rancid odor. I will look up on my phone where we are because I will have no idea. I will eat one of the several giant bags of M&Ms. I will wish that it could last for another day.

I will enjoy this moment. 

POINT AND SHOOT MEMORIES

I squeeze on a ticket while traveling on a train hurtling towards downtown Seattle. I grip my ticket while I shakily hold up my phone to attempt to capture the images I see from the window. Colorful murals on concrete walls turn into blurs on my screen. The ticket will end up in the same box as all the other travel mementos. It will live with the collection of receipts, napkins, brochures, candy wrappers, bottle caps, newspapers. I will find it someday, looking at the faded ink: Aug-08-19. Adult. 3.00 ONE WAY. From: SeaTac/Airport. To: Westlake/Seattle. Direction: North.

That’s how I will remember I took the train.

I will later forget about the two ladies who sat behind me- so painfully from Los Angeles - and the bicyclists zooming on cracked sidewalks. There is no proof of them existing. No ticket, no photo, no receipt. Their images will linger within my brain for a short period, but will fail to etch itself into my mind. They will dissolve from the fragile fragments of my memory, much like my fading train ticket.

x

The human brain kind of works like this: there’s a part of the brain called the hippocampus, which controls the story of the self. It stores information from the when, the where, the what. Paired with the eyes, the most influential in memory creation, visual information will trigger memories in a person’s brain. There’s a complicated map of where this information runs and how the eye connects with the brain. Information bounces throughout the brain where it ends up in the hippocampus. That's when memories are triggered. A small visual trigger can unlock a full story in a matter of seconds. That’s why when I see my receipt from Wood Stone Pizza in Fayetteville, Arkansas, 7:34 pm, I will remember that I tried pimento cheese for the first time.

x

The evergreen forests of the northwest turn into red earth tones as we barrel across the state. Whispy clouds circle through the bright sky. Windmills dancing across the hills of a barren wasteland isn’t the idea of Washington that's seen in picture books.

Backseat photographer.

That’s how I will remember this car ride.

I will remember the crank of my old camera and us going too fast on the highway. I will remember that we were stuck in traffic, but I won’t remember our conversations. I won’t remember the car snacks, but I will remember the playlist, to a certain degree. I play tourist. I fervently take photos out of the window. I must document this experience so I don’t forget.

x

I am in a van. It is black. I will forget what the inside looks like. I will remember crossing into Idaho, but I won’t remember crossing into Montana. I remember a truck stop, 50,000 Silver Dollar, because I bought a postcard adorned with a photo of the 50,000 Silver Dollar truck stop. I also bought a drink, but I don’t remember what. I remember the sun gliding along my face while on the backroads of the mountains, but I also may be thinking of another time.

We are creeping up the road that will take us to the sun. I roll down the window for better shots as the car fills with cold mountain air. I will remember how the breeze felt on my flushed face, but I won’t remember the smell. I will remember the shaky knees and hands as we edge along the curb. I will remember the fog. I will not remember the mountain goat, but I will remember the wet air. We pull over. I step out of the car and take a few deep breaths. I need to remember this moment; the fleeting feeling of being calm, the silence, and fresh air. The gleaming and grand mountains that are in front of us. I will remember buying a cup at Logan’s Pass Visitor Center once we got to the top.

That’s how I’ll remember this moment.

x

I have been here before. It wasn’t long ago, but it feels like a lifetime has happened since then. The Montana sun feels the same as it did before. The first time I saw buffalo but we will not see one now. Before I stayed for a long time. I needed to stay; I needed to document my feelings as I watched the shadows roll across the hills. I remember figuring out the fog and fuzziness in my thoughts at that moment. I remember sorting out how to fix it. I remember forgetting it all immediately.

I try again now. I need to document this time, I need to figure out what’s going on inside my mind. Photos will help. I pull out my phone too, just in case. That will help. Right?

I need to remember the sunset. I need to remember the flies buzzing against the light. I need to remember the air, the temperature. I need to remember how I felt before. But all I can recall are the pictures and a fading receipt for gas.

I need to remember experiencing this moment. I am experiencing this moment, right? I am anchoring myself to this place in time, my surroundings, my emotions. I fervently change the film, as so I don't lose any of the sun. I need the photos to remind me how it was.

That’s how I will remember this moment.

DEAR NASHVILLE

We both know I held on for too long.

We started so beautifully. I embraced the calling of the south. I dreamed of humid porch nights filled with the sounds of Dolly Parton and deafening crickets, sipping on sweet tea under a blanket of stars. Little did we know that the call was heard by hundreds of others who would flock to you, making our relationship confusing and hostile throughout our time together.

But for five years, I held on.

I think of that lovely day, looking at my apartment for the first time. It was January, but I wasn’t wearing a coat. I didn’t need one. You were so warm, right from the beginning. The train was speeding past and Matt was on his front porch playing guitar. Bob dug around for the dropped keys to the apartment and I yelled across the yard to Matt, trying to explain the situation. I didn’t know what he was saying, and I didn’t know then how important 907A would be to my 907B.

I documented that apartment many times. I spent hours turning that shitty house with the rippled floors and clogged water pipes into my home. My home. Our space. It never stayed the same, ever. It was continually growing with memories and photos that filled the tight walls. I hosted so many in that home. I remember that swampy evening when unintended visitors raided my home, drank my moonshine, and played 90s classics on guitars and banjos until the early hours of the morning. There was the Thanksgiving reunion with an old friend, sitting around my tiny table pretending we were much fancier than we were. There was the poorly read Norweigan poems to a crowd of sniggering Europeans. When I let a bunch of sweaty dudes from the North crash on the floor. I let my boss know they were there, in case I went missing during the night. She always questioned my behavior, but it’s only a rite of passage of a Nashvillian to let a blossoming band stay for the night. I loved that house. It was my home, my bubble, saving me from the outside world of heartbreak, frustration, sadness. It was my haven; something I created. And I held onto it for as long as I could.

I will say, you made a believer out of me. As an adamant anti-country music individual, you turned me around. You taught me the lessons in seeing and hearing differently. Music venues that were former churches with music that would make a disciple out of anyone. I re-lived that moment, sitting in that room. Once I was alone. Completely alone. The room was silent as the sun poured through those stained glass windows, flooding color throughout the pews. And for a short, glorious time, the place was mine. Just mine. Not a lot of people in Nashville have had that, but I have. There was the Station Inn, a musty room in the heart of a gentrified paradise. One summer evening the students came back to the city, yammering on during the Bluegrass jam. We left, defeated, only to discover a beautiful group of people out back, playing the most authentic music I've ever heard. A makeshift concert for those who couldn’t get into the main space because talkative Belmont students took up all the seats. We gathered around as more musicians slipped through the backdoor into the group, expanding the sound down the street. It was an incredible sight. I clung to those experiences, hoping you would provide more like it. I held on, waiting for the city to pull me back in again, just as it had before.

And let's not forget the times where alcohol had made me believe in the faux-happiness of my dwelling. I remember, faintly, in the backseat of someone else’s car, I felt the motion of a boy’s hand running down my shirt. I couldn’t be bothered with the boy, but I looked out across the city, mid-night as the lights sparkled in the distance. It was one of the times that I thought the city looked pretty. And Rudie’s. Rudie’s was the place. I detested their food and the faint smell of oysters made me sick to my stomach, but I loved being at Rudie’s. It helped that Tamara was a bartender and the discounted Tecates made me think and believe that I could be a part of the hip crowd of East Nashville. I never truly belonged, but the long chats with Tamara were always worth it. Those are what I held on to.

And then there were the moments which devour my pleasant memories. Driving along the Natchez Trace on my birthday, tears filling my eyes as I sobbed about a boy. The long days at a job that never appreciated me- nor anyone else, really- and how hard I worked to please those who will never be pleased. Neighborhood houses torn down for fancy tall skinnies, with new neighbors who capitalized on the hard work of the residents who were all forced out. The constant coming and going of friends; the ones who moved away and those who drifted apart. I loved the time we all spent together, but sad knowing it will never happen again. I took it out on you, I always did.

And then, over the course of some difficult and miserable months, the job was gone, as was the apartment. We stayed in limbo for a long time. I kept saying I would leave, and yet, I never did. I’d go for a week or two, off to some romantic location, always returning to you. I held on. Onto what, I’m not sure, but I stayed. Even when I left, removed my body to return to the barren North, I never honestly left. You were still a part of me, and as much as I hate to admit it, you always will be.

And now it’s been decided to return one last time. I’m coming home to pick up the last vestiges that I’ve left in the city. I know they shouldn’t have been there in the first place. But I let them stay there for months; all my belongings rotting away in a sketchy storage facility. It was an excuse to come back, as it always has, but now it’ll be the last.

But I’m going to hold on to what I have left, for these remaining days,

just before I lose you,

for good.

ABOVE/BELOW

I.

Above the ground on the island of Manhattan, I twist and turn with no direction. Google maps won’t load as I spin in circles on the streets of the city. People whizz past me as I try and get my bearings. It’s the lower east side and the streets crisscross diagonally, and I’ve lost the concept of north and south. I shift uncomfortably under the magnificent buildings as it begins to rain. New Yorkers take out their umbrellas as I stomp through the wet sidewalks, meandering into the foggy void.

II.

The smell of faded gasoline, urine, potent cologne, and weed wafts through the tunnels. It’s dark and gritty grays cover the walls over the tracks. It was once clean and white. Now the tiles tell the story of the people who have passed through: scratched letters “JS LOVES TE”, layers of advertisements and graffiti litter the walls, and what I'm hoping is ketchup smeared across the ornate mosaic of '23RD STREET'. It’s frigid on the surface but now I’m sweaty beneath in the dampness of the subway, bundled up in my sweater and scarf. The rumble of the trains screeches above and below, traversing in opposite directions as the express trains fly through. A gust of wind pushes up from across the tracks and it feels good on my sticky cheeks. Faces of bored commuters stand along the tracks, their banal expressions illuminated by the glow of their phones while a bucket drum beats somewhere in the distance. I breathe a sigh of relief.

III.

“You should go to Central Park. Have you been to Central Park?” This guy is talking to me like I’m a lost puppy in the big city. I tired explaining that I’ve lived in New York before, but he must not have heard me since this restaurant inexplicably has a DJ. There’s chatter coming from the tight tables with loud drinkers playing Jenga and Connect Four. I can’t help but think all these people are from the mid-west, here to find their purpose in the capital of the universe. “If you’re staying in Brooklyn, you should go to this pizza place. If you get there early enough you only have to wait 2 or 3 hours.” Did he suggest that I wait 2 hours for pizza in the city where there’s a pizza place on every corner? The group that I’ve found myself a part of is very nice, they laugh away talking about their day in the finance world. I understand the words they’re saying, but it’s not a language that I can figure out. Alienated, I sip more beer and ask for another. “Wow, you drink a lot” he says. Another concept in which we’re both lost in translation.

IV.

Tourists scratching their heads, looking down at maps and up to the signs. Little circles of orange, blue, green, red hang over the faded yellow platforms. It looks like a foreign language to some. D To Coney Island via 4 Av Express Skips DeKalb Av. A 8th Av Express Far Rockaway. PM Rush hrs Late nights A on local track. Q to 96 St/2 Av Late Nights Broadway Local. It’s terminology some will never understand, but it seems to be my language, speaking and reading fluently in the place where it all makes sense to me. I feel more comfort in the dark tunnels of the subway than I do on the surface. There, I feel like an outsider. Here, I feel at home.

V.

8am. It’s cold and raining. I try to look up at the towering structures from beneath my hood. Rain sprinkles onto my eyelashes and down my cheeks. Billowing steam from below the streets masks the architecture of lower Manhattan. The thing about New York is that I want to be in it all the time. I don’t necessarily want to live here. I just want to be here, soaking in the city, surrounded by ancient buildings. The history those walls have seen, the people who have walked these streets before, sights and sounds continually changing. I walk fast, but I have no destination. I want to see it all, but in a city that’s 300 square miles I feel defeated in the undertaking. I can’t decide if I’m a tourist or a true New Yorker at heart.

VI.

The floor is wet and squeaks as sneakers glide across the surface. We’re tussled back and forth, speeding through the shadows of the underground. Soft rhythms below us as the wheels glide over the rails. Buh-dud buh-chit, buh-dud buh-chit. I close my eyes within the darkness and open them to a new light. The train pushes forward over the East River. We pass the Brooklyn Bridge and the Statue of Liberty. The World Trade Center sparkles in the background. They seem so different from the train than they do in person. Not a tourist site crammed full of people with selfie sticks at the ready. They’re merely a part of the landscape, like a mountain that formed hundreds of years ago, etched into the city’s enduring portrait.

 A little girl in a puffy pink coat wrestles away from her mother’s arms and runs to the window. She presses her nose up to the glass. A small circle of her breath appears while both of her hands pressed firmly on the door. Her eyes dart back and forth, staring out like Santa Claus himself is riding along right outside. Sleepy passengers open their eyes and begin to peer out the windows as graffitied buildings sneak out from the fog. No fewer than 8 million people rushing on the streets outside, but the busy sounds of the city are unheard from our silent train. All we can do is marvel at it from a distance. For a few minutes we’re all awake and in awe of this place, New York. Our heads slowly nod to the beat of the tracks below. As we begin to descend back into the dark, the little girl in the puffy pink coat doodles on the condensation left on the window. The last of the light disappears. Our heads are now slumped back down, eyes closed again as we reach Brooklyn.

VII.

In the depths of the city’s subway, you don’t have to be the person you think you are. The people on the train don’t care if you’re in disrepair in your life because they are too. They don’t care that you’re lost. It’s here that you can disappear and be found again. You can close your eyes and pretend to sleep so you don’t have to interact with anyone. You can unabashedly eat McDonald’s cheeseburgers and read steamy romance novels in public. You can pretend you’re annoyed with the break dancers that get on at 34th, but secretly you love it. You can stare out the window into the dark tunnels as you speed from station to station, pretending that you live here, the most magnificent city in the world, even though you think you don’t belong. With each passing ride, with each closing of the doors, you never have to be the same person. You get to write your life over and over until you are who you want to be.

In New York, you get to be whoever you want to be.

THANK YOU FOR RIDING WITH GLENN!

“You’re going to Baltimore Avenue? You’re far from home, huh?”

If only you knew, Glenn.

Glenn is a jovial man in his 50’s. He has a strong Philly accent and clearly loves to talk. I don’t like my chatty Cathy Lyft drivers, but sometimes I just don’t have a choice. He’s driving me from the Eastern State Penitentiary to West Philly. I have just had a job interview here and that seems to interest him. Probably interests him a lot more than it interested me.

“My kids live on the other side of the park, I want to take them to the haunted house they have here. But they never seem to have the time” He takes an illegal u-turn while mumbling to himself. “No left turn…then…I’ll…just…take….the….next…right….” I’m in no mood to talk and I hope he is contempt with talking to himself.

I am exhausted. I’m exhausted of looking for a job. I’m exhausted putting on the same dress and putting on a fake smile to talk about a job that I really don’t even want. I’m tired of shaking new hands, I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of explaining my situation. I have become a master interviewer though. I can tell a story for every question, or at least make up a good one to make myself look qualified. But even that has become tedious and exhausting.

“Where are you from?”

Oh, he’s back to talking to me.

“Um, Nashville.” Even I’m not sure if that’s right. “Well, originally Ohio.”

“Wow, you’ve lived all over, huh! Do you live in Philly now?”

“Yes.”

I just lied to him.

“And you live in West Philly?”

“Yes.”

I’m lying to him. Why am I lying to him? This is Glenn, not a job interview.

I remember once I was in a Lyft in Vienna, VA. I was on tour and I told the Lyft driver that I was the tour manager (I was not). I told him I was in charge of everything, including money (I was not) and I needed a ride to the bank (that part was true). He was so excited that he gave me his card. He was a photographer and told me to call him if he needed photographers on the tour. Then I felt like shit. Because that’s me. Hoping for my big break, hoping I didn’t have to work some shitty job to pay bills while I dreamed of a bigger life.

I look out the window, staring at the beautiful twin homes of West Philly. Identical conjoined houses sitting side by side. Some freshly painted and some falling apart, some missing their siblings. The bright sun makes the colors pop and the leafless trees make for a beautiful and dramatic scene. As we zoom past the city streets I see the community out and about, going to various ethnic restaurants, greeting one another, walking to and from home. I miss that so much. Traveling’s been great, but it’s the constant and almost pathetic begging of having friends host me. The persistent battle of ‘maybe I can could stay just one more night?’ because I don’t have anywhere else to go.

“You don’t want to go past 40th street over here. It used to be you never wanted to come to West Philly, but I guess the city’s growing”.

“Oh, I hear that. 32nd is far enough for me.”

I have no idea what I’m agreeing with. I’m not even sure if I’m staying on 32nd. I just know what Charlotte’s house looks like. But maybe, just for my 15 minute Lyft ride I want to pretend that I have my life together. I have a home to go to, with all of my stuff, and I’m a useful member of society. Yes, this is my life Glenn. A seasoned traveler with a pension for weird interviews at historic prisons. But I’m important. I’m taking this Lyft ride because I can afford it, definitely not because I can’t figure out SEPTA enough to get me there. I have a home here, one that I’m returning to. I’m going to make myself a cup of tea and bask in the glory of my home.

But I’m not. I will make the tea though, just as a homeless rube.

“You like living here now? After Nashville?”

“Oh yeah, I love it! Trying to embrace the cold again, ha ha ha. I’m still getting used to waiting for the trolley in the snow.”

“You’ll get used to it. Ok… here….we…..are….Baltimore Avenue! Welcome home.”

“Thanks, Glenn. I’ll see you around,” as I step back once more into grim reality.