A Sojourn Into the Past
I am sitting at River Rock Coffee in St. Peter, Minnesota, sipping a sparkling water spiked with ginger and lime. A few crumbs from my tuna melt sandwich have managed to escape my hungry grasp and still lay on the plate in front of me. Gazing at an empty bowl -- which moments ago was filled with lentil curry soup -- I follow the direction of the spoon I placed precariously in the white ceramic and look up to see Erbert's and Gerbert's, my favorite sandwich shop when I studied at Gustavus Adolphus College nearly two decades ago.
I'm tripping today, down Memory Lane. I am thinking about how Freshman year, it was such a novel experience to be able to pick up the land line in the room I shared with Hannah in Rundstrom, and call for delivery. Boney Billy, that was the sandwich du jour, every day, for me. I giggled each time I placed my order for this turkey sandy.
On the way into town, I passed the Dairy Queen where, on a snow day in February, Katie and Jenn and I drove the short distance from campus so that we could stock up on Blizzards and hunker down to binge on Sex in the City as all classes had been canceled. We reasoned that since it was already so cold, we wouldn't get any colder from the ice cream.
Across the street from River Rock Coffee is now Chinatown, a Chinese restaurant. Isn't it ironic, Alanis? This summer, our red-haired, porcelain skinned Natalie, nearly 10 years old, proclaimed "Let's talk about what we'll be doing in 20 years!" to her 3 sisters. Unpredictable I think now. When I sat in this cafe nearly 20 years ago, not in my most wild, random, or far out dreams would I have predicted that I would be a resident of China, inhabiting a city of more than 12 million people after attending college in a town of under 12 thousand.
Stepping onto a worn path
After my lunch, I made my way, slowly, up to campus, stopping at one of the many boutiques that now line South Minnesota Ave, the Main Street of St. Peter. As I perused the clothes and accessories at Generations Boutique, I noticed a pair of earrings nearly identical to ones that I had purchased this spring at a market in Bangkok, Thailand. It's possible, I thought, that they were made by the same hands. It is a small world, after all. I've learned this time and again, as I have traveled so far from home to find connections that bring me right back to my roots.
As I drove closer to Ring Road -- the road that circles all of Gustavus, the road that entreated Anah and I to take many night runs -- I looked for my old house on Walnut Street, notoriously called The Mouse Trap for the many rodents that took up residence with my 4 girlfriends and me. I didn't spot the small rundown house on the first go round, but another drive of the street brought me in front of the small, white abode. As I got out of the car to take a closer peak, I squinted back into the past and heard the squirrels racing in the roof above my head in my bedroom with the slanted ceiling. I remembered putting my glasses on when I would wake up in the morning during the winter time to note that they were fogged up from cold; poor insulation and college girls trying to save a buck equated to teeth-chattering temperatures in our house in January.
When I finally stepped foot on campus, I parked near the cafeteria, the place that sealed the deal on my decision to attend Gustavus; a Baci girl's gotta know that the place she is hunkering down for four years serves decent food. A nostalgic ache set into my belly.
I walked through Lund Center, stepping onto the indoor track, where the girls volleyball team was practicing, to reminisce about the hundreds of laps I had run during our indoor track season.
I stepped into Christ Chapel, a serene space with bright light that filters in. I sat down in one of the pews in the back of the chapel and thought about all of the Wednesday services I had attended. I remember feeling a little more calm after a 20-minute service in the midst of harried days of classes and essay writing. On Wednesdays, the service ended with a singing of the Lord's Prayer. It was a melody I had never heard before, and which I cannot conjure today, but I still remember the way it soothed something in my soul. As I stepped back into the bright light of mid-day, words from L.R. Knost returned to me: The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.
The words lingered as I crossed paths with the Center for International and Cultural Education. This was the office I had burst into at the beginning of my sophomore year, eagerly signing up for a semester abroad to begin my junior year.
A great deal of darkness and light would lace itself through the months leading up to that semester, and during the entire time I studied in Barcelona, as anxiety coursed through my veins -- I had leapt so far outside of my previously established boundaries.
Weaving through the center of campus, looking at the lush greenery, the buildings I recognized, the ones that stood more recently renovated, memories kept materializing before me.
Except for a sparsely attended football game, and an occasional skateboarder, campus was so quiet. I walked through Old Main, which had housed many of my Education courses. My movements rustled and echoed in the hallway, lonely sounds as I thought back to the chatter of the lessons that I had participated in with other future teachers. I was certain then that I would be teaching America's youth, unaware of the international seed germinating inside my belly.
Some time passed as I kept wandering about campus. A visit was not going to feel complete without a run of some sort. I thought that I might find one of the old paths that extends into part of the town behind campus, but my memory failed me. While moments rushed back to me in waves, anything to do with directions has receded into an abyss in my mind.
I settled on a run around Ring Road, this time under the hot, hot afternoon sun rather than the light of the moon. As I jogged past Linnaeus Arboretum, I noted how much more time I would have spent there during college if I had found meditation sooner. I suppose I preferred to stay quietly in the center of things then, rather than explore the outskirts. I decided to step off of Ring Road for a moment and explore the arb more today, so inviting with its many benches nestled into zen spaces. I passed the building where one of my English classes was held and thought back to reading the American Transcendentalists with Don Scheese, or Scheesey as Kel and I endearingly named him. I love the likes of Emerson and Thoreau, but Scheesey, I am only a little sorry to say that what I remember most from that course is the day that Nate Waters somehow connected keg-stands to our reading. As a teacher now, I empathize with your annoyance; as a student then I am still giggling under my breath.
It's been a beautiful day of exploring my old campus haunts, and I am typing again from River Rock Coffee, now sipping an oat milk matcha latte.
And I'm thinking about how much things change. And how much they stay the same.