At the age of twenty-four, all I could think of was getting out of this city. At forty-one, I don’t believe I’ll ever want to leave it again—not for long, anyway.
In June of 1990, my father drove me from Middleton to Columbus, WI, a town I lived forty miles away from for much of my life but had not heard of before, to drop me off at the historic railway station. I remember my father trying to tell me something about its history, but I was distracted. I had met a man the summer before and fallen in love, only to learn he had plans to move to Seattle a few months later. He followed those plans and, a year after that, I was following him.
I have the pictures still—me standing impatiently in front of the station waiting for the train that would get me out of Columbus, out of Madison, out of Wisconsin. I could not wait to get out. I could not breathe here, not with my heart already more than two thousand miles away. I was certain I would not breathe again until I reached the Pacific Ocean.
The train did come, and I left my family on the platform, waving their goodbyes. There was no dramatic steam to obscure them as we pulled away from the station. At twenty-four, I was still disappointed when scenes such as this seemed in no way to resemble any movie starring Humphrey Bogart or Lauren Bacall. But this was Amtrak, baby, and it was all about the speed. We were out of Wisconsin much faster than I anticipated.
Seattle is beautiful in the summer. Contrary to popular belief (and I am actually breaking an oath to reveal this to those who have never lived there) it does not rain every day in the Emerald City. In fact, one summer we went 73 days without rain, and the temperature never strayed more than a few degrees from 75. It was honestly the most perfect climate I had ever experienced of all the places I have lived. At night, you could leave your windows open regardless of the fact that they had no screens, because Seattle had no mosquitoes. I am not making this up. Fir trees, deciduous trees, flowering shrubs were everywhere, like a city built in a never-ending garden, yet the humidity was never even the slightest bit oppressive. Being fresh out of school, I had no money and no car, yet the city buses covered every square inch of the sprawling metropolis and, if it wasn’t enough like Christmas already, bus rides were always free in the downtown area. And I was in love.
I was told it rarely snowed down in Seattle (situated right at sea level) though Mt. Rainier and the Cascades were typically capped with white year-round. I am certain it was no coincidence that the year I moved to the mild Pacific Northwest from the frigid Midwest, Seattle experienced one of the worst snowstorms ever recorded. And while they had no mosquitoes, turns out they had no snow plows, either. (I’ll bet you never knew there was a connection there, did you?)
Luckily, the snow melted within a week or so from the San Francisco-like hills of the city, and life returned to normal. Summer also returned, idyllic and full of hope. Not sure of what he was waiting for, I asked the man with whom I planned to spend the rest of my life to marry me.
He said no, thank you. He always was very polite.
Seattle is a beautiful place to have your heart broken. Unfortunately, such picturesque surroundings tend to mock you when you’re miserable, and within a year or two, I left the city and the man behind. I have been moving ever since. I went as far as Egypt to forget Seattle, and Cairo did a pretty good job, what with her searing heat, pressing crowds, and mosquitoes the size of the European sedans which always threatened to run you over as you crossed the city streets. Cairo apartments have no screens, either. That is because the mosquitoes ate them for breakfast.
After Egypt, I tried graduate school in Utah, home of mountains and Mormons. And more mosquitoes. Quite accidentally, I met another man—one who did not say no when I asked him “the question.” We married and hit the road again. States, and years, went by in a blur; Hawaii, Idaho, Washington, Nevada, California, Wyoming, Arizona... And the more states we saw, the more I missed the one I could not wait to leave back in 1990: Wisconsin. They say time heals all wounds, and if that doesn’t work, try travel. Some even suggest marriage. I tried them all. My ex-husband tried them all, too, including some I didn’t try. And so we learned together that two broken hearts do not make a whole one.
What time does teach you is how to live with the pain while re-discovering the joys that life has yet to offer. In 2005 I returned to Wisconsin, to Madison, to family. After a decade and a half of living, loving, losing, and learning, I needed peace. Peace mostly comes from within, of course, but a nice neighborhood never hurts, either. I tried Madison, then Sun Prairie, but still did not feel settled, though life was admittedly far more peaceful than the previous years. I decided I needed a home of my own. After a great deal of searching, I found it in an unexpected place, a few blocks from Columbus’ historic railway station. I am listening to the train whistle now as I write this, and I think of the circular journey that has led me to this place. This place I finally call home.
In June of 1990, my father drove me from Middleton to Columbus, WI, a town I lived forty miles away from for much of my life but had not heard of before, to drop me off at the historic railway station. I remember my father trying to tell me something about its history, but I was distracted. I had met a man the summer before and fallen in love, only to learn he had plans to move to Seattle a few months later. He followed those plans and, a year after that, I was following him.
I have the pictures still—me standing impatiently in front of the station waiting for the train that would get me out of Columbus, out of Madison, out of Wisconsin. I could not wait to get out. I could not breathe here, not with my heart already more than two thousand miles away. I was certain I would not breathe again until I reached the Pacific Ocean.
The train did come, and I left my family on the platform, waving their goodbyes. There was no dramatic steam to obscure them as we pulled away from the station. At twenty-four, I was still disappointed when scenes such as this seemed in no way to resemble any movie starring Humphrey Bogart or Lauren Bacall. But this was Amtrak, baby, and it was all about the speed. We were out of Wisconsin much faster than I anticipated.
Seattle is beautiful in the summer. Contrary to popular belief (and I am actually breaking an oath to reveal this to those who have never lived there) it does not rain every day in the Emerald City. In fact, one summer we went 73 days without rain, and the temperature never strayed more than a few degrees from 75. It was honestly the most perfect climate I had ever experienced of all the places I have lived. At night, you could leave your windows open regardless of the fact that they had no screens, because Seattle had no mosquitoes. I am not making this up. Fir trees, deciduous trees, flowering shrubs were everywhere, like a city built in a never-ending garden, yet the humidity was never even the slightest bit oppressive. Being fresh out of school, I had no money and no car, yet the city buses covered every square inch of the sprawling metropolis and, if it wasn’t enough like Christmas already, bus rides were always free in the downtown area. And I was in love.
I was told it rarely snowed down in Seattle (situated right at sea level) though Mt. Rainier and the Cascades were typically capped with white year-round. I am certain it was no coincidence that the year I moved to the mild Pacific Northwest from the frigid Midwest, Seattle experienced one of the worst snowstorms ever recorded. And while they had no mosquitoes, turns out they had no snow plows, either. (I’ll bet you never knew there was a connection there, did you?)
Luckily, the snow melted within a week or so from the San Francisco-like hills of the city, and life returned to normal. Summer also returned, idyllic and full of hope. Not sure of what he was waiting for, I asked the man with whom I planned to spend the rest of my life to marry me.
He said no, thank you. He always was very polite.
Seattle is a beautiful place to have your heart broken. Unfortunately, such picturesque surroundings tend to mock you when you’re miserable, and within a year or two, I left the city and the man behind. I have been moving ever since. I went as far as Egypt to forget Seattle, and Cairo did a pretty good job, what with her searing heat, pressing crowds, and mosquitoes the size of the European sedans which always threatened to run you over as you crossed the city streets. Cairo apartments have no screens, either. That is because the mosquitoes ate them for breakfast.
After Egypt, I tried graduate school in Utah, home of mountains and Mormons. And more mosquitoes. Quite accidentally, I met another man—one who did not say no when I asked him “the question.” We married and hit the road again. States, and years, went by in a blur; Hawaii, Idaho, Washington, Nevada, California, Wyoming, Arizona... And the more states we saw, the more I missed the one I could not wait to leave back in 1990: Wisconsin. They say time heals all wounds, and if that doesn’t work, try travel. Some even suggest marriage. I tried them all. My ex-husband tried them all, too, including some I didn’t try. And so we learned together that two broken hearts do not make a whole one.
What time does teach you is how to live with the pain while re-discovering the joys that life has yet to offer. In 2005 I returned to Wisconsin, to Madison, to family. After a decade and a half of living, loving, losing, and learning, I needed peace. Peace mostly comes from within, of course, but a nice neighborhood never hurts, either. I tried Madison, then Sun Prairie, but still did not feel settled, though life was admittedly far more peaceful than the previous years. I decided I needed a home of my own. After a great deal of searching, I found it in an unexpected place, a few blocks from Columbus’ historic railway station. I am listening to the train whistle now as I write this, and I think of the circular journey that has led me to this place. This place I finally call home.
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