We have the night off in Sandpoint, Idaho, the birthplace of Sarah Palin. I fully expected to see a statue or effigy of some kind in her honor, but so far no dice. Maybe ever since her grandbaby daddy popped up on Tyra and she guested on American Chopper, she’s become more like the mildly embarrassing relative they wish people didn’t notice.My costar Jef and I spent our afternoon doing radio interviews. The last was with a podcast called The Quasi-Glamorous Life, which is the best description I’ve heard of my current circumstances. It was an afternoon of technical gaffes, odd delays, and dropped cell phone calls. I’m terrified I ended up sounding like Paula Abdul when she does those morning shows via satellite.
Now the night is my own. I would stick around the hotel and watch TV, but there’s really no point- When I talked to Preppy tonight about my post-tour job opportunities, he told me how American Idol wound up. Because of the time difference, it ended for him before it even starts for me. As if the distance between us wasn’t bad enough, now my fiancé actually lives three hours in the future.
I grab my trusty notebook and head out into the night, settling on a coffee shop on the town’s main stretch. There’s a view of a rushing river and an extraordinary mountain range. If I in any way liked nature, it’d be breathtaking. My time in the Pacific Northwest has confirmed a long-held suspicion: I’m simply not a nature person. I like vast expanses of concrete and tall buildings.
The only other occupied table in the coffee shop is three college-age friends, two guys and a girl, sipping those frozen milkshake things coffee shops sell to people who don’t drink coffee. They keep shooting looks at me, which we get a lot when we stay in smaller towns. The locals sniff us out as strangers pretty quickly. Finally, curiosity gets the better of one of the guys, who approaches my table to ask if I go to school around here. I explain what brought me here, and as I do, the three of them join me at my table. Introductions are made.
“So you signed up to tour the country, and you wound up here?” says the girl, Susan.
“And a lot of places like it, yeah. But it’s cool, actually. After all, this is what Sarah Palin calls Real America.”
I am awarded points for my Palin shout-out. In short order, it’s decided that if I’m stuck in Sandpoint for the night, I should get the grand tour. So we head out to see the sights and soak up a little history. I learn the locals are much more proud of their other notable native: Viggo Mortensen, whom the guys, Robert and J.T., declare “badass,” and Susan calls “yummy.” I agree with Susan, which takes care of me coming out to them.
Now the night is my own. I would stick around the hotel and watch TV, but there’s really no point- When I talked to Preppy tonight about my post-tour job opportunities, he told me how American Idol wound up. Because of the time difference, it ended for him before it even starts for me. As if the distance between us wasn’t bad enough, now my fiancé actually lives three hours in the future.
I grab my trusty notebook and head out into the night, settling on a coffee shop on the town’s main stretch. There’s a view of a rushing river and an extraordinary mountain range. If I in any way liked nature, it’d be breathtaking. My time in the Pacific Northwest has confirmed a long-held suspicion: I’m simply not a nature person. I like vast expanses of concrete and tall buildings.
The only other occupied table in the coffee shop is three college-age friends, two guys and a girl, sipping those frozen milkshake things coffee shops sell to people who don’t drink coffee. They keep shooting looks at me, which we get a lot when we stay in smaller towns. The locals sniff us out as strangers pretty quickly. Finally, curiosity gets the better of one of the guys, who approaches my table to ask if I go to school around here. I explain what brought me here, and as I do, the three of them join me at my table. Introductions are made.
“So you signed up to tour the country, and you wound up here?” says the girl, Susan.
“And a lot of places like it, yeah. But it’s cool, actually. After all, this is what Sarah Palin calls Real America.”
I am awarded points for my Palin shout-out. In short order, it’s decided that if I’m stuck in Sandpoint for the night, I should get the grand tour. So we head out to see the sights and soak up a little history. I learn the locals are much more proud of their other notable native: Viggo Mortensen, whom the guys, Robert and J.T., declare “badass,” and Susan calls “yummy.” I agree with Susan, which takes care of me coming out to them.
They find the fact that I’m gay “awesome.” I like these people.
We jump a locked gate into the town graveyard, and J.T. gives his reviews of local bars as we weave through the tombstones.
“There’s a few 18-and-up places. Are you over twenty-one?”
“Yeah,” I say. No need to elaborate on my upcoming 30th birthday.
“They let us in because we won’t drink, so nobody gets in trouble.”
They’re all under 21. I’m spending my evening breaking into graveyards with people a decade younger than me... and they don’t know. I want to call every casting director I know and tell them I can still play a college student. Provided it’s dark outside.
My newfound Idahoan pals walk me back to my hotel, bemoaning the fact that none of us have a camera to commemorate the night.
“Dude,” says Robert. “Can I have your hat? It’ll be like a souvenir.”
Before I can answer, he’s removed his Puka shell necklace, and is offering it for trade. How could I turn him down? I give him my baseball cap, put on the necklace, and hug them all goodbye.
Then I walk back into my hotel, where writing, interviews, and a job search await. After a lovely evening out pretending to be twenty again, I have to lay the groundwork for getting back to the future.
We jump a locked gate into the town graveyard, and J.T. gives his reviews of local bars as we weave through the tombstones.
“There’s a few 18-and-up places. Are you over twenty-one?”
“Yeah,” I say. No need to elaborate on my upcoming 30th birthday.
“They let us in because we won’t drink, so nobody gets in trouble.”
They’re all under 21. I’m spending my evening breaking into graveyards with people a decade younger than me... and they don’t know. I want to call every casting director I know and tell them I can still play a college student. Provided it’s dark outside.
My newfound Idahoan pals walk me back to my hotel, bemoaning the fact that none of us have a camera to commemorate the night.
“Dude,” says Robert. “Can I have your hat? It’ll be like a souvenir.”
Before I can answer, he’s removed his Puka shell necklace, and is offering it for trade. How could I turn him down? I give him my baseball cap, put on the necklace, and hug them all goodbye.
Then I walk back into my hotel, where writing, interviews, and a job search await. After a lovely evening out pretending to be twenty again, I have to lay the groundwork for getting back to the future.
Until I remember: This hotel has a freakin’ waterslide.
Maybe the future can wait ‘til morning.
