Last Saturday, I landed at the Medford airport in Oregon. I had had an easy 90 minute flight from SFO next to an Oregonian cattle rancher. At first, hearing I was from Berkeley, my aisle-mate clearly edited himself. After I shared how I grew up in rural Indiana and had had tended a few cows myself, he positively blossomed. 
I learned about his first and second wives, perused pictures and heard stories of his dogs, cattle rustling and branding, floods on his property, hunting exploits, and was treated to a detailed flyover description of the geography. It was an excellent introduction to southeast Oregon. I could easily dedicate whole post about the ways in which our social identity flavors how and to what extent people share with you. Of course, it helped that socks covered my tattoos and my nose-ring was on the opposite side of my face, but who would have thought that the mere mention of cows would impact how much this man shared with me. Had I wanted to read my Kindle, I could left out the bovines and mentioned something about legalized marijuana in OR.
But identity is not the topic of this post. I want to share with you about my week.
A few weeks ago just after a lovely weekend in the city, that nevertheless failed to be the retreat I was hoping for, I mentioned at the dinner table how I wished I could spend some time with my friend Ted. Sandy looked at me blankly and asked, well, why don’t you? And I looked back, eyebrows and shoulders raised, and thought, you’re right. Why not? So I rearranged things at work, found an airbnb, and bought tickets. Just like that, I had a retreat prepared. I spent the interim weeks mulling over what to do with the time. In the end, I determined I would get this blog up. I secretly also wished to run, explore, and hangout with Ted. Unbelievably, I have managed all of those things, and tomorrow I fly back home.
The bulk of my time has been spent holed up with my laptop in a lovely studio that is part of the Cycle Hostel
in Ashland. When not writing, I have walked about the city and the surrounding area. I’ve covered much of the terrain, because, really, it is quite a small town, both in population and geography.
It is a quaint city. There is a quiet – a distinct lack of white noise – that startles while it lulls. Even in the off-season, it embodies the charm and grace that invites travelers but with an unexpected authenticness. It possesses none of the brittle, staged, shallowness of so many tourist destinations.
What has surprised me most, however, are the people – how palpably nice they are. Ted, a San Francisco native, described a situation when he first moved here. In a grocery store parking lot, he noticed a classic scene: a’ little old lady’ struggling with her bags and a group of punked-out teens approaching her. He hurried to intervene but failed to get there before the kids had already taken her bags. To her car. And proceeded to put her cart away. As he described his bewilderment, I couldn’t help but think Bizarro-Dorothy – I guess, we are in Kansas, Toto. 
My own experiences have been similar. When you walk by someone on the street and smile at them, they all smile back. Now, smiling at folks is something in which I take pride; it’s like my Midwestern super-power. I can cadge a smile from most strangers in passing. There are a cornucopia of responsive smiles, and I collect them. Some people when you smile at them, smile back automatically, it’s like an exchange you might have passing a colleague in the hall – the “hey, how are you today?” initial smile, followed by the “fine, and you?” grin. It’s ingrained behavior. The other person doesn’t really expect an answer. Their eyes have already gone to the next thing in their path.
That doesn’t diminish the importance of this exchange. It feeds you both – like an appetizer or small salad. Other times, I will grin at someone, and they are momentarily stunned. If you time these exchanges precisely, you can savor the millisecond scan the person does of their surroundings and memories, wondering if they know you or if you are looking at someone else, before beaming back at you. This transaction is like playful flirting and flattery with a stranger on your commute or standing at line in the supermarket. I gorge on these kinds of smile exchanges.
For my menu of grins, I have cataloged dozens that can pepper your day – a grudging smile from someone wrestling with an unpleasant, internal dialogue – or the impish I-got-you-first wink of another Midwesterner – or the exhausted sigh of a smile from someone thankful that you gave them that extra boost to complete their day. What has surprised me in Ashland, is that people wear a smile that I know and love but in an entirely unexpected way. The smile they employ is the one that you share with another person observing the coltish antics of children tumbling about the playground or with a grandparent watching their daughter or son hold an infant. It’s a profoundly informed and experienced smile, poignantly hopeful. It is a smile between co-conspirators. I think, mostly, what startles is that people in Ashland smile with you, not at you.
I cannot express how grateful I am to Ted for inviting me to experience this. While I accomplished what I meant to, what I have not done is solve any problems, defined any plans, or alleviated any stress. Admittedly, I am anxious at the thought of coming home. Yet, I will cherish this week because it exists somewhere completely separate from the rest of my life. A Bizzarro-Berkeley, but good.