Signs

I was nervous--driving into a city that I had never been to, where I would live full-time for the next year at least. When we first arrived, it was chaotic. I was anxious to arrive but was a bit disappointed with what I found. For some reason, I expected Seattle to be as familiar to me as Arizona--enough that I could get where I wanted to go, yet still with much left to explore. Since "settling in," I've realized that I don't know a damn thing about this place.

When we entered the city and saw the freeways and streets, I had the feeling of home that I get when I first arrive in Phoenix. It took me all day to remember that I was four states north and would remain so.

After getting the "tour" of the house that I was to share with seven? eight? (I'll never get it right...) other girls this year, I panicked. Let's be real here--the place looked like it hadn't been lived in for years: mold, flies, scum. I can't even begin to describe it. Taking lots of deep breaths, my mom, aunt, and I went for a drive. For fresh air? Maybe, but for some reason, I thought that I could just find a new place and be done. Be okay.

Attempting to be stoic, we reached the end of my street. We saw it---across the road was a sign, huge, reading "222". My grandma's number. My mom always said that whenever that number shows up, Grandma is with us because that was her lottery number that she always played: it identified her and kept her with us in that way.

"Something good is going to happen," my aunt said.

Even though I have fervently felt a connection with that number my whole life, this time, all that I could think was, "Grandma's not going to show up and make everything better this time. She's not in the material." I was right, and I was very wrong.

We returned to the house and unpacked my things. It's just a house was my mantra for the next 24 hours. The next day, we deep-cleaned the major areas of the house--the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and my room. It's just a house. It's just a house, I repeated as I scrubbed lines of black mold from the bathroom tiles. Light echoed past the pink orchid that previously sat in the kitchen sink housing flies; it now smiled into the sun from the windowsill. I looked at the room and took a more final deep breath. Home.

Chores done, we went exploring the next day. My aunt's number one site to see in Seattle was the Space Needle, so we went there first. From over 600 feet in the air, we viewed the cloudy city. Nothing looked familiar, but I thought about how well I would come to know these streets in the next year, just as it took some time to get to know Pittsburgh when I first started going into town. I also thought about Italy and how I climbed the Duomo; I pointed out my apartment and the many streets that I had ventured in that short month. Maybe at the end of my Seattle adventures I can do the same. But now, I couldn't even point out the direction where my house was or even where the bus had dropped us off in-town.

Next to the Space Needle, there was a new exhibit--Chihuly glass & gardens. I knew that my mom and aunt would love it because they always commented on the Chihuly pieces installed at Phipps Conservatory. We bought a dual ticket for the Needle and the gardens and smoothly transitioned from one to the next.

Bright pieces of ornately twisted and connected glass reflected off the floor, each other, and the spectators' eyes and glasses in colorful array. Outside, orchids and maples blended with glass shine and organic form.

I could breathe easy, and I was growing to like the city--a place that intimidates me at every thought. I knew that my house was going to work out, even though we hadn't found a different one. I knew that I would be okay here.

As we walked from room to room in the exhibit, I happened to glance behind me at the door: Room occupancy, max capacity: 222.

I believe in signs.