Living in Bemidji is a little surreal.
I mean, most of the time, the move feels fresh and different and a little exciting.
But sometimes? It's like living in the middle of a flashback.
From 1990 to 1995, I lived in Bemidji while fulfilling my lifelong dream of becoming an elementary school teacher. And also while tossing that dream out the window and becoming an English major.
Because of those five years, Bemidji already feels somewhat familiar and home-like to me. But because those five years were 25-plus years ago, it can also feel unfamiliar.
Sometimes at the same time.
Lake Bemidji State Park? It's this cool new place I'm excited to explore on skis this winter ... and also where Jay and I used to throw around a baseball when we were dating.
Bemidji Avenue? It's the route I take to my new local coffee shop ... and also the path my roommate and I walked in a downpour after we wisely decided to leave our cars parked outside Bottoms Up. (Which, by the way, doesn't exist any more.)
Bemidji State University's library? It's a pillar of my new community ... and also where I once inadvertently walked into a drug deal. And refused to leave.
That's a story.
This must've been my sophomore year. I had a huge crush on this guy named Jason. I mean, I swear his name was Jason, but if I was under oath, I'd have to admit that I'm only about 87% sure it was Jason.
Jason was a freshman. A Bemidji local who lived with his parents. A kid with long-ish blonde hair who wore stocking caps in the summer and did tai chi. (Which I still, to this day, want to call chai tea.)
I knew about the living with the parents thing because I overheard him talking about that between classes in the halls of Hagg Sauer. (Which, by the way, doesn't exist anymore.) And I knew about the tai chi because he told me about it in the green outside the union — in a conversation I re-lived with my roommate no fewer than a dozen times over the next week.
So I'm crushing on (the guy whose name is most likely) Jason pretty bad. Bad enough that I wrote a paper about him in my nonfiction class. Bad enough that I looked his parents up in the phone book — the actual, physical white pages — and called him even though he probably didn't even know my name. Bad enough that I thought tai chi was sexy just because he was doing it.
Anyway. That call. I don't know what I was going to say if he was home — but I didn't find out, because his mom said he was out in a field all night playing some game with his friends.
Or something like that. The details are foggy, but that's the vague recollection I have of it now. That, and the full body relief I felt that he wasn't home and I didn't have to actually talk to him. Even though I'm the one who called.
I don't know.
So, anyway, a couple days go by post-call. I don't see him at Hagg Sauer. I don't see him outside the union. I don't see him on the first floor of my dorm building, where he sometimes visited a friend, even though I found 759 excuses to walk down there to check just in case.
I'd pretty much decided that Jason was MIA out in a field somewhere when I went to the library to study that Saturday afternoon. I'd taken the tunnel — the campus-wide underground sidewalk system that makes BSU a rock star among northern Minnesota colleges — and was climbing the stairs to the first floor entrance when the love gods shined on me. Because, just at that moment, Jason also walked in the first floor entrance.
Suddenly, there we were — just the two of us, alone in the library's outer foyer, without classes or other students or weird all-night games in a field to get in the way. It was go time.
"Hi!" I practically shouted at him. "I called you!"
"Yeah?" he said. "You did?"
"You were out in a field," I said.
His eyes shifted outside and I figured I'd gone too far, but then he started telling me about the field thing ... I don't know, like I said, it's foggy because the whole time he was talking I was thinking, "This is it! This is it! He is telling me stuff and we are so going to fall in love!"
And then some guy walked in the door. And instead of thinking, "These two lovebirds are IN THE ZONE, I should probably go," this guy just stood behind us, shifting back and forth.
But maybe we weren't so much in the zone, I realized. Because suddenly Jason wasn't talking anymore. He was looking at the new guy. So I turned to look, too, and saw that the guy was just standing there, holding a paper lunch bag.
Here's what I wanted to say about that: "Take your lunch somewhere else, Mister! You are destroying the vibe!"
Here's what I did say:"Hey."
So he said, "Hey."
And Jason said, "Hey."
And we're in this weird "hey" triangle, all just looking at each other, until I said, "Oh, do you know each other?"
And instead of answering, the guy gave Jason the lunch bag. And Jason gave the guy something I couldn't see. And then I made a joke about them going on a picnic together. And then I realized I'M TRYING TO LAND A DATE IN THE MIDDLE OF A DRUG DEAL.
Anyway.
We didn't work out.
I mean, most of the time, the move feels fresh and different and a little exciting.
But sometimes? It's like living in the middle of a flashback.
From 1990 to 1995, I lived in Bemidji while fulfilling my lifelong dream of becoming an elementary school teacher. And also while tossing that dream out the window and becoming an English major.
Because of those five years, Bemidji already feels somewhat familiar and home-like to me. But because those five years were 25-plus years ago, it can also feel unfamiliar.
Sometimes at the same time.
Lake Bemidji State Park? It's this cool new place I'm excited to explore on skis this winter ... and also where Jay and I used to throw around a baseball when we were dating.
Bemidji Avenue? It's the route I take to my new local coffee shop ... and also the path my roommate and I walked in a downpour after we wisely decided to leave our cars parked outside Bottoms Up. (Which, by the way, doesn't exist any more.)
Bemidji State University's library? It's a pillar of my new community ... and also where I once inadvertently walked into a drug deal. And refused to leave.
That's a story.
This must've been my sophomore year. I had a huge crush on this guy named Jason. I mean, I swear his name was Jason, but if I was under oath, I'd have to admit that I'm only about 87% sure it was Jason.
Jason was a freshman. A Bemidji local who lived with his parents. A kid with long-ish blonde hair who wore stocking caps in the summer and did tai chi. (Which I still, to this day, want to call chai tea.)
I knew about the living with the parents thing because I overheard him talking about that between classes in the halls of Hagg Sauer. (Which, by the way, doesn't exist anymore.) And I knew about the tai chi because he told me about it in the green outside the union — in a conversation I re-lived with my roommate no fewer than a dozen times over the next week.
So I'm crushing on (the guy whose name is most likely) Jason pretty bad. Bad enough that I wrote a paper about him in my nonfiction class. Bad enough that I looked his parents up in the phone book — the actual, physical white pages — and called him even though he probably didn't even know my name. Bad enough that I thought tai chi was sexy just because he was doing it.
Anyway. That call. I don't know what I was going to say if he was home — but I didn't find out, because his mom said he was out in a field all night playing some game with his friends.
Or something like that. The details are foggy, but that's the vague recollection I have of it now. That, and the full body relief I felt that he wasn't home and I didn't have to actually talk to him. Even though I'm the one who called.
I don't know.
So, anyway, a couple days go by post-call. I don't see him at Hagg Sauer. I don't see him outside the union. I don't see him on the first floor of my dorm building, where he sometimes visited a friend, even though I found 759 excuses to walk down there to check just in case.
I'd pretty much decided that Jason was MIA out in a field somewhere when I went to the library to study that Saturday afternoon. I'd taken the tunnel — the campus-wide underground sidewalk system that makes BSU a rock star among northern Minnesota colleges — and was climbing the stairs to the first floor entrance when the love gods shined on me. Because, just at that moment, Jason also walked in the first floor entrance.
Suddenly, there we were — just the two of us, alone in the library's outer foyer, without classes or other students or weird all-night games in a field to get in the way. It was go time.
"Hi!" I practically shouted at him. "I called you!"
"Yeah?" he said. "You did?"
"You were out in a field," I said.
His eyes shifted outside and I figured I'd gone too far, but then he started telling me about the field thing ... I don't know, like I said, it's foggy because the whole time he was talking I was thinking, "This is it! This is it! He is telling me stuff and we are so going to fall in love!"
And then some guy walked in the door. And instead of thinking, "These two lovebirds are IN THE ZONE, I should probably go," this guy just stood behind us, shifting back and forth.
But maybe we weren't so much in the zone, I realized. Because suddenly Jason wasn't talking anymore. He was looking at the new guy. So I turned to look, too, and saw that the guy was just standing there, holding a paper lunch bag.
Here's what I wanted to say about that: "Take your lunch somewhere else, Mister! You are destroying the vibe!"
Here's what I did say:"Hey."
So he said, "Hey."
And Jason said, "Hey."
And we're in this weird "hey" triangle, all just looking at each other, until I said, "Oh, do you know each other?"
And instead of answering, the guy gave Jason the lunch bag. And Jason gave the guy something I couldn't see. And then I made a joke about them going on a picnic together. And then I realized I'M TRYING TO LAND A DATE IN THE MIDDLE OF A DRUG DEAL.
Anyway.
We didn't work out.