I was 21, I had spent the previous summer in Africa and had come home and broken up with a guy. Nathan was his name, and potstickers were his game. (Because they're good.)
My future husband, long the object of my suppressed affections, had just returned from a lengthy stint in Chile and promptly encouraged his friend James to pursue me, because he himself was most certainly not interested in Emily Godfrey; he had his sights elsewhere. I was crushed, but in a suppressed sort of way. I began to dig James, and we dated. James stayed in Phoenix while Steve and I went back to the motherland for school. This was January 1997.
I was in Students for International Development on campus, and when my comrade from my Namibia trip, Cassie, suggested we go to a SID conference in DC, I decided to go along. There was a group of us going, they'd find us a place to stay, they said.
And now, because I was eating homemade french fries and dodging my daughter's greasy kisses while trying to type this and these three paragraphs took longer than you might think, my threshold for blogging has been reached (it's a pretty short threshold), and My Pivotal Trip to DC shall now be serialized. Stay tuned for: the second-worst night of sleep of my life and disappearances in the night.