I am sitting in the cell phone waiting area of the Spokane airport, casually staring at the other drivers waiting for their phone call and wondering whose number will come up (or be dialed) first. Parking lot purgatory.

From the tinny speakers in my little red phone, Peter Gabriel announces he'd like to be my Sledgehammer. I'm up.

Sarah is waiting too, under the Southwest arrivals sign, scanning the road for the car her friend used to drive to frosty morning practices in upstate New York. Same car, different podunk. "I could tell it was you," she tells me when she finally settles into the wrinkled grey leather of my passenger seat, "you were driving like you were looking for me but had no map to find me. Like you'd zoom right past me if you got too sure of yourself and accelerated." I smile because she's right; I was terrified I'd miss her, as if passing her by (even just once) would make her disappear - poof! - back to LA. So I had to be careful, because I so desperately wanted to see someone who knew me.

The strange thing about living life as a wandering academic is you're always doing the first days. Hi my name is. I'm from. Wanna sit together at lunch? I love and hate these days. I love sitting amongst my friends-to-be and knowing some will become precious to me. I hate wondering how long it'll be until we get there. I'm something of an open book, but still, there are a lot of pages. It takes a little while to really know me (or anyone), I think. Sarah's a speed-reader, though - she knows and has always known my story. I don't remember going out of my way to make friends with her; it was a recollection rather than a creation.

IhadacrappydayandIcan'tfigureoutwhy one of us will say. Ineedtomove-stayput-makesomething-usemyhands-getdirty-writewritewrite-breathe, you know what I mean? And the other person will say Yes. I know exactly what you mean. I get it. Here's what to do.

Back in the Volvo, I am still a little worried, because I don't know how to make this visit a vacation for her. Even knowing that she's here to see me, I still don't know how to make Pullman Worth the Plane Ticket. I'm pondering this, and measuring the potential excitement value of a can of Cougar Gold, when Sarah squeals and presses her hands up against the chilled glass of her window.

"You've got HILLS here" she coos. And I know she'll get along with Pullman just fine.

Sarah constructs Pullman as a tourist, whereas I construct it as a home. She looks and sees everything LA can't give her - there are conversations to be had in coffee shops, the football game this weekend is the most important thing on the list and people smile with unaltered faces. I realize I've been taking for granted how easily I can breathe here. I look for grocery stores and bus routes. She looks for the greengreengreen she's be craving. What will I be on the lookout for, when I go to LA? What will I gloss over, because I see it every day on my way to school? What has Pullman done for me lately? I should take a moment to figure it out.