Hospitality traditions have stuck with me

It’s crazy the way life works. I met a bunch of people at a warehouse in south Seattle yesterday–it could’ve been anywhere in the industrial parts of anchorage, too–this crazy “co-op” convention which happens monthly, at which about a hundred people all drink free microbrews and eat free ice cream and talk about how co-ops could save the world. Not really my jam, but I’m always happy to meet people and drink free microbrews and eat free ice cream and talk about anything at all. This warehouse was next to a copper salvage place. “Do I have the right address?” I wondered. I’d gotten off the light rail at Sodo station. There is nothing at Sodo station. A man wearing a leather apron swung heavy sheets of metal into the back of a truck in an empty parking lot. Slabs of granite lay in heaps in industrial yards. Broken things everywhere. 

And then, all the people I met yesterday at the strange warehouse co-op event were over at my house today, and we made dinner, and talked about traveling all the places. We talked about alaska, and slovakia, and georgia, and istanbul, and new york, and denmark, and all these places that are definitely real places in the whole world. I roasted a chicken and talked about how dad always roasted chickens and they made the usual “woo-wah” noises that people make when I describe my father’s culinary madnesses. Or how he woke us up with the soviet national anthem, and with the repetitive banging of a pot lid with a wooden spoon. 

These strangers made peanut sauce at my house. Peanut sauce. We are practically family. They made me nostalgic for my homeland(s).  

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