I was cutting a steak with a butter knife. I asked Tim if he was done with his steak knife. I told him that I had left the knives in the car from our trip. His reply was, “Leaving them in there for the next time we pick up a hitchhiker?” On our way back from Colorado, we picked up a hitchhiker. We took him about 60 miles to Mizzoula. I had the knife I used to cut mangoes in my hand. The poor hitchhiker must have been paranoid.

I just got home from Grand Junction, Colorado. I am really tired. I noticed Rachel left me a note to myself…heh. Actually, I am bit depressed. I am staring blankly at my screen, dried eyes, Kasey Chambers’ voice echoing in my ears.

I’ve only been home two hours, and it seems like the cares of life are yet upon me once again. This weekend, I was wrapped up in the beauty that the Trinity exemplifies for us: community, sacrifice, and service. It was a time of rediscovery for me. Tim put it this way, “I haven’t seen you have that much fun since I’ve met you.”

I went down with Tim to visit the Boda and Ferguson families that went to church with Tim in New Hampshire. It was the first time that I was really able to be myself in the last six months, without being criticized for it.

Since I’ve been living in the Inland Northwest, my personality has been stifled a lot. I had thought that I had just changed. My trip to Colorado taught me that I hadn’t. For the first time in six months, I was totally me, and I didn’t worry about what people thought.

At one point, I was even dancing in Pastor Ferguson’s house (making up dances to psalms). And instead of getting weird looks, I saw Mrs. Ferguson join in. I felt really at home.

With those funny Yankee accents, I felt like I was living at home with my parents again. The trip made me think a lot about who I really am. The answer, much to my best friends’ chagrins, is that I am a Yankee. Now, I may be a sort of modified Yankee. I’m a Yankee that has imbibed a lot of Southern culture, but I am a Yankee. More specifically, I am a New York Italian that has been tempered a bit by living in the South for a few years. That doesn’t mean I think the North was right or anything like that. It means, that is the culture I grew up in, and it’s a culture that I greatly love, and it’s the part of me that I miss this most.

I’ve had plenty of anti-Western posts, but I say, let the West have what they got. I just don’t want it. I’ve lived here for six months, and with the exception of Rachel and her mom a few times, I haven’t gotten a hug in six months. In just a couple of days in Colorado, Mr. and Mrs. Boda, Pastor and Mrs. Ferguson, and Lindsay Ferguson gave hugs to Tim and me. I got multiple hugs from them throughout my few days. Now, they all come from Massachusetts/New Hampshire. It’s part of the culture.

As I grew up, I’d get a slap in the head if I didn’t kiss grandpa. It’s simply a more affectionate culture. I am disturbed by the fact that if a man gives me a hug, people here give me weird looks.

Now, people in the West will tell you that Northeasters are rude. It’s simply not true. Okay, they’re more blunt. They’re louder. They can sometimes be more obnoxious. Oh well. I’d rather be hugged.

In the Inland Northwest, manners can often be idols. Now this isn’t something that I am just saying because I am annoyed with the way manners are here. This conversation came up with a large group of people in Colorado. These people had lived in the Moscow/Spokane areas, and they had run into the same thing. I had thought that maybe I was just feeling this way because of my culture, but it’s not just me. I am not English. I don’t want to be English. I grew up an Italian, and my best friends were the Greeks down the alleyway. I grew up in a Mediterranean culture. And ya know what? This English Reformed culture doesn’t like my culture. In fact, it sees my culture as rude, uncouth, and lacking in manners.

Honestly, I don’t care anymore. I can’t pretend to be okay with this anymore. I tasted a little piece of home this weekend. Since I’ve moved here, I’ve had people hovering over me, a little bit suspect, just waiting for me to break the rules. I’m sorry, I can’t play by these rules.

I spent an entire weekend being me. I was me more than when I lived in Monroe or Florida even. The people in Grand Junction made me feel really at home. I met so many wonderful people this weekend. I especially enjoyed my time with everyone, but I especially felt comfortable with Lindsay Ferguson and Nate Ahern. I felt like I was speaking with like minds there. I had several good conversations with Grace Ahern, learned a wonderful composition of Psalm 51 by Abe Ahern, was faked out by Leah Ferguson’s fake cry, and I was frightened by the fearlessness of Jayme and Anna Mazon as we ascended the Colorado National Monument.

My favorite time was at the Ferguson’s on Sunday night. I wept as I left. It was hard to feel normal again. I hope to go back there next month sometime. Here are a few pictures from our weekend.