A lot of people I meet on the road ask where I’m from. I don’t know what to say; there is no straight answer.
“I’m sort of from two places.”
It’s getting annoying to them and to myself to answer this way. I should pick a city already.
Then I get the look that tells me to stop messing around.
“San Diego and Seattle.”
“And where are you headed?” they ask, because their social skills are dampened by the constant influx of travelers, as are mine, and it seems like this would be a good next question. I was expecting it and I’m prepared this time:
“Seattle, driving up from San Diego for the summer.”
“You’re going the wrong way.”
I’m going to offer back a light laugh and a smile and change the topic now, and if it’s the morning I’ll check out of here and if it’s the evening I’ll go find my bed.